


Compass

by bearonthecouch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assualt (in Chapter 18), Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Some Smut (in Chapter 19)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 55,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: She opens and closes her left hand, where a still-healing gash proves she had drawn blood to defend herself just days before.If Alistair the templar knew that, would he still let her stand free?
Relationships: Alistair/Female Amell (Dragon Age)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 8





	1. Witches of the Wilds

Cold rage settles in Rhyanon's stomach, a churning ball that radiates outward in the form of mana settling like static on her skin. Before she knows it, her hand is at the templars throat, and she shoves him hard against the wall. There is a heavy thud as the back of his head snaps against it. He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and he's trying to talk. But Rhyanon can't hear anything above the voices screaming in her head, demanding that Duncan betrayed her, that this templar is a threat.

“ You were a mage hunter,” she spits, as her eyes meet his wide and frightened ones.

He tries to shake his head. “I wasn't,” he manages to croak out.

Rhyanon lets go of him, and he stumbles and nearly falls right into her. She catches him instinctively and then lets go of him quickly, as she tries to calm her breathing and quell the whispers in her mind.

Alistair is rubbing at his throat and coughing, violently. Rhyanon winces. Her finger marks are still visible on the pale flesh of his neck. “'m sorry,” she mumbles. “I shouldn't've...” she trails off. Fear that is shaped like anger still batters at her insides. Back in the Tower, after an attack like that... if Alistair was a templar, why didn't he smack her down with a Holy Smite, and take away all her power?

“ We're on the same side,” he insists, softly.

Rhyanon shoots him a glare that proves what she thinks about  _ that _ . How can they be on the same side? The templars want her dead.

“ If we're going to stop the Blight, we need to work together,” Alistair continues. His offer of peace is tentative, but Rhyanon believes that it is genuine. She nods, slowly.

It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of trust, but it's more than she should give him. She opens and closes her left hand, where a still-healing gash proves she had drawn blood to defend herself just days before.

If Alistair the templar knew that, would he still let her stand free? Perhaps she isn't the only one from whom Duncan is hiding information.

“ What are we supposed to do?” she asks, and Alistair tells her about going out into the Wilds to gather darkspawn blood.

All she knows of the darkspawn is what she's heard in stories. Histories of the Blights of old, sure, but it's in the verses she'd been told to memorize since she was six years old, the Chantry's words and their reason for keeping her caged:  _ Twisted and corrupted by their crime and their magic into monsters, they fled underground, unable to bear the light of day. The first darkspawn. _

“ Are you scared?” Alistair asks. Rhyanon shakes her head. She tells herself she isn't really lying. She's more afraid of herself than the monsters in the Wilds.  _ Maleficar _ . The word is an accusation that crashes against the insides of her mind. Is that really what she is?  _ Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.  _ But she was only trying to stay alive.

Alistair frowns as he looks at her, but he seems to accept her answer, and he nods.

She falls into step cautiously behind him as he leads her through the camp toward the gate. Soldiers cluster around in small groups. Rhyanon can’t help but feel their gazes on her. She isn’t wearing anything that identifies her as a mage, but still, they point and whisper as she passes by. Alistair seems to be trying his best to ignore them. He keeps shooting glances at her, but Rhyanon is doing her best to pretend he isn’t there. Another templar in a position of authority over her is the last thing she needs. 

She feels something prickling on the back of her neck, and then the buzzing of magic being manipulated and shaped nearby. She hasn't realized that she's stopped until Alistair touches her arm. He pulls back immediately, but she turns toward him. “What are they doing here?” she asks quietly. She's not sure who she's asking about: the mages wearing Circle robes, or the templars guarding them. She shies away from getting any closer to that corner of the camp.

“ The king has been recruiting mages from the Circle for weeks. Didn't you know?”

Rhyanon shrugs. She’d heard Irving talking about something like that with the Warden, Duncan. But with her Harrowing on the horizon, she’d paid it little attention. 

The spell that the king’s recruits are weaving looks like nothing she’s ever seen. And she doesn’t recognize any of them. She doesn’t feel like she’s one of them at all.   
  
“Let’s just go,” she pleads, and Alistair quickly steers them away from the mages and templars. But she can feel the too-familiar glares of the templars following her. They are trained to see her, they know what she is, regardless of what she is or is not wearing. She has no illusion that she is safe from them. Duncan was able to protect her once, but she doesn’t know if he has the inclination or ability to do so a second time. At what point do the Grey Wardens decide she is more trouble than she’s worth? 

Alistair is still looking at her with something like concern, but he puts on a smile as they approach the gate, and the two men standing before it.

There is a round man with sweat dripping from his bald head, who watches her with sharp eyes. “This is Ser Jory,” Alistair says. His glances over at the other man, who wears dark leathers and a ready smile. “And Daveth. Both of them are Warden recruits, like you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rhyanon says smoothly. The lessons in etiquette from her early childhood still hold, though she had little chance to use them in the Circle. 

The way Daveth is leering at her does not escape her notice, but she handles that better than Jory’s barely concealed fear and disgust. He doesn’t trust magic, and therefore, he doesn’t trust her. 

She isn’t counting on Alistair to come to her defense, but their leader does repeat his previous assertion that they’ll need to work together to have any hope of defeating the Blight. 

Daveth grins and slaps Jory on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. She don’t look the type to turn us all into toads, do she?”

Jory still looks wary, but he makes no objection, and the four of them pass through the gate.

The Wilds are more than Rhyanon could have imagined. She has never been in a forest in her entire life, and this land is old-growth, bathed in the rich smell of dark soil and decay, life and death. Animals and insects skitter through the trees, visible in glimpses here and there. 

The path is barely visible at times, overgrown as it is. Dark leaves and brambles tangle around her ankles. She knows that there are mages who hold power over the land. The Dalish wield all manner of magic that her Chantry-restricted education couldn’t teach her. There are Chasind myths about this forest in particular that make Rhyanon keep her guard up. But there’s beauty out here too, and it overwhelms the danger. 

“Darkspawn,” Alistair warns, and Rhyanon calls her mana to the surface of her skin while Jory draws his sword and Daveth readies his knives. 

The scent of decay in the forest grows stronger, highlighting the direction of the darkspawn band. The creatures smell of blood and unwashed bodies, and Rhyanon nearly gags. She breathes slowly through her mouth and forces her attention on the fight. 

Alistair, Jory, and Daveth run into the fray. There are four of the darkspawn - one for each of them, Rhyanon thinks - and she stretches out a hand and throws out a ball of fire, watching as it catches the huge beast lurking on the edge of the fight. The creature howls in shock and pain, and its eyes fix on Rhyanon. 

The crackle of mana flows through her body and she casts it outward again. This time, the magic forms itself as lightning, surging outward from her fingers in arcs of purple-white light. They wrap around the darkspawn, and it writhes in agony. 

Rhyanon lets the spell remain active until the darkspawn falls to the ground, a smoking corpse. She lets her mana bleed away only reluctantly, and only then does she look up to see how the men have fared. 

She can see Daveth using his twin daggers to slash at a darkspawn’s neck. Black blood pours from the wound, but Daveth continues pressing his attack until his prey stops moving. 

“Three vials of darkspawn blood,” Rhyanon announces, as she clutches them in her left hand. 

“We’ve gotten what we came for,” Jory says. “Let’s go back to the camp.”   
  
Alistair shakes his head, and looks deeper into the forest. Rhyanon doesn’t like where this is going. “There’s something else we need,” the young Warden says. 

“Like what?” Rhyanon asks. 

“Treaties. There’s a Grey Warden cache hidden in these words, and we have to find it.”   
  
“Right,” Daveth sighs, rolling his eyes. “How come you couldn’t tell us that in the first place?” 

“It didn’t seem that important while the darkspawn were attacking us!” Alistair snaps. Rhyanon opens her mouth to protest and then closes it again. 

“Do you have any idea where this cache we’re supposed to be looking for is?” Jory asks. 

Alistair waves his hand vaguely toward the north, where a creek cuts through the forest, providing something of a guide to the way forward. 

“Come on, then,” Rhyanon says. “Better get going.” Alistair nods at her, a silent thank you, but Rhyanon doesn’t return the gesture. 

They’ve walked for nearly an hour without success or even a hint of their prize, and Rhyanon and Daveth have started whispering back and forth about whether they ought to just give up and call it quits, when a scantily dressed, raven-haired young woman literally drops in front of them. Rhyanon takes a startled step back and recognizes that the woman has jumped from a fallen monument to someone long dead. The white marble has been almost fully reclaimed by the Wilds. 

“Well, well, what have we here?” the mysterious stranger purrs, smooth as a cat. 

“Who  _ are _ you?” Alistair asked, eyes narrowed and hand on his weapon. 

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is,” Daveth insists.

Rhyanon smiles. The woman is a mage, she can feel that, but her magic is completely unfamiliar, and tinged with a worrying darkness. Still, who is Rhyanon to talk? The Chasind girl at least doesn’t seem to be a blood mage. 

“A Witch of the Wilds?” the stranger repeats. “Those are but tales told to children, are they not?” Her yellow eyes land on Rhyanon, unblinking. “You - you are a woman, and a mage. You will not frighten as easily as these little boys, I think.”   
  
“Hey!” Alistair protests, but Rhyanon holds up a hand and he falls silent. Hmm. A templar obeying her command. She could get used to that. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she tells the girl, honestly. 

“Good.” 

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Morrigan.”

“I’m Rhyanon. Rhyanon Amell.” 

“And what brings you to these Wilds, Rhyanon Amell?”   
  
Rhyanon casts a glance back toward Alistair, but he seems happy enough to let her do the talking, so she turns back to Morrigan and tells her the truth. “We’re looking for old scrolls that were hidden here, ages ago. They belong to the Grey Wardens.”   
  
“And you are Grey Wardens?”

“Yes,” Rhyanon says simply. 

Morrigan’s eyes narrow as she studies Rhyanon. “You will need to follow me, then. My mother holds your treaties.”

“Your mother,” Alistair repeats.

“Yes. What, did you think I spawned from a log?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Alistair mutters, but Morrigan ignores him.

“I think we should go with her,” Rhyanon announces, and Jory and Daveth share a look, but they fall into step behind her, and Morrigan leads the way. 

Her mother looks like an old woman, but Rhyanon looks at her and sees powerful magic. She keeps her mouth shut, unsure of how much the men around her perceive. 

“What do you run from?” Flemeth asks. Rhyanon’s gaze flickers toward Alistair, and Flemeth smiles as if this tells her everything she needs to know. 

“Be careful you do not run too fast,” she says, without giving any clue as to what she really means. 

Rhyanon scowls. “Do you have the treaties or not?” 

“Indeed, I do. And why should I give them to you?”   
  
“Because we need ‘em to save the fuckin’ world,” Daveth chimes in, and Flemeth raises an eyebrow.

“He’s not lying,” Rhyanon finally says. 

Flemeth beckons to Morrigan and tells her to retrieve the treaties. Rhyanon holds the scrolls in her hand. The soft parchment smells slightly of mold, and what little of the writing she can see is barely readable. After a moment’s thought, she gives the scrolls to Alistair.

“We have what we need now, don’t we?” she asks, her voice bleeding hostility. No, she still doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust anyone here. 

When Alistair nods, she pushes her way past him and begins heading back toward the camp. 


	2. Bonds

Rhyanon doesn’t have time to draw on her mana when Alistair grabs her arm. She pushes him off her, physically and nearly runs straight into the darkspawn he was trying to warn her about. This one is taller than the ones they fought off earlier. Its smile is eerily human, and all the more unsettling for it. It seems to glide rather than walk, and its voice, as it chants in some ancient language, is harsh and grating. And it’s a _mage_. 

She can feel the mana gathering around it, dark and ugly. Its eyes lock on her, recognizing one like it. Rhyanon doesn’t break the contact. Instead, she gathers her own mana and creates a shield of electricity around herself. The darkspawn is close enough to her that it can’t help but feel it. Rhyanon smiles with satisfaction as the ‘spawn takes a step backward in an attempt to get away from her spell - and walks right into Alistair’s blade.

Alistair grins at Rhyanon as the darkspawn’s corpse falls at his feet. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, because he may have just saved her life. She hurries back to Jory and Daveth before he can reply.

“I can’t wait to get back to camp,” Jory announces. 

Rhyanon nods agreement, although she isn’t quite sure how she feels. Back to camp means more time with Alistair, and Duncan. 

She can see the tents in the distance, growing closer with each step. Jory and Daveth chat as they walk, but Rhyanon stays quiet. She hears the barking of mabari hounds as they approach the camp, and as they clear the gate, one of the animals lifts its head and begins to bark.

“He likes you,” a grizzled man standing near the kennel says. 

Rhyanon shies away and shakes her head. She doesn’t know anything about dogs beyond what she’s seen of the templars’ hounds at Kinloch Hold, charged with hunting down runaways.

The kennel master notices her reluctance, and he looks both sympathetic and concerned. “Please,” he says. “The dog will die without you.”

“What do you think I can do?” Rhyanon asks slowly. She looks around for any of her Warden companions, but they must have moved on. 

“It’s not so much what you do as what you are. As a Grey Warden, you’re immune to the Blight.”

Rhyanon frowns. She hadn’t known that, but then, when it comes to the Grey Wardens, she doesn’t know much.

“I have some medicine here. If you can give it to the dog, he might survive.”

“I thought the Blight didn’t have a cure.”

“Ah, well. That’s the other reason the dog needs you. If a Grey Warden bonds with a mabari, that Grey Warden’s resistance somehow passes to the dog.”

Only a Fereldan would know that, but Rhyanon isn’t surprised to hear that a band of heroes as legendary as the Grey Wardens would include mabari in their ranks. She just isn’t sure she wants one bound to her. 

“Go on, lass,” the kennel master says. Rhyanon has heard that dogs can sense fear, but the dog she’s looking at just seems miserable. He whines as Rhyanon approaches, but he doesn’t make any aggressive moves, and Rhyanon has to admit, she does feel some kind of connection when she looks at the dog. She crouches down to look him in the eye, and reaches out a hand to slip a muzzle over the dog’s mouth. She pulls away quickly before he can bite her, and looks over her shoulder at the kennel master. “You did good,” he confirms. “And I think he may’ve imprinted on you.”

Rhyanon nods. She feels it - the dog belongs with her. It’s like filling a hole she never even realized was there. “I don’t know how to take care of a dog,” she protests. 

“Ah, but your friend there does.”

Rhyanon whirls around to see Alistair standing a pace or so away, a soft smile on his face. “It’s a special thing,” he says. “To have a mabari bond to you.”

The dog pants happily, and seems much less sickly than it did before. He follows close on Rhyanon’s heels as she makes her way back to Duncan in the Grey Warden section of the camp. Alistair sticks close, and she hates that he is so obviously _watching her_. It makes her skin crawl, a too-familiar sensation that makes her heart beat a little faster. The dog notices her distress, and presses himself against her leg. She reaches down instinctively and begins to pet him. 

Jory and Daveth, who have been standing around the campfire sharing a flask, grow quiet as Rhyanon and Alistair approach, and Duncan makes steady eye contact with each of them in turn. 

“Come. We are ready to begin the Joining.”

Alistair taps his fingers on his leg nervously, and Rhyanon has no idea what to expect, but she does recognize the vial he’s currently pouring into a metal chalice: lyrium. She can feel the resonant magic. She watches as Duncan pours one of the vials of darkspawn blood they’d collected in to mix with the lyrium. “Drink,” he says, handing the cup to Daveth. The rogue takes it in two hands and winks at Rhyanon before he downs it. 

And then, he starts convulsing. The cup falls to the ground. Blood and spittle bubble out of Daveth’s mouth, and he falls next to the cup, unmoving. Jory backs away from his friend, hand to his mouth, eyes wide and panicked. 

“I… I have a wife. A child…” 

“I’m sorry,” Duncan murmurs, so quietly that Rhyanon can barely hear it. 

And then he thrusts his sword into Jory’s stomach, a fatal wound. The knight clutches his bleeding gut and holds Duncan’s gaze, still disbelieving, until the light goes out of his eyes. Duncan stands over the corpse. His eyes flicker over to Rhyanon, then to Alistair, and he nods. 

Alistair takes a deep breath, takes the chalice from where it had fallen, and mixes the lyrium and darkspawn blood with eyes closed and murmuring something under his breath. He hands it to Rhyanon, eyes imploring. “Drink,” he says softly. She does. 

The sensation that washes over her reminds her briefly of the Harrowing. There are lights and voices that she can’t place, swirling around her and overwhelming her senses. She feels herself fall, but she can’t make any sense of what’s happening to her. 

When Rhyanon wakes up, memory rushes in quickly. She’d never trusted Duncan, but she’d wanted to believe he had her best interest at heart. But the way he’d killed Ser Jory… Rhyanon put the back of her hand to her mouth and concentrated on breathing, slowly, carefully. After a few moments, the nausea subsides, though her uncertainty and fear does not. And she knows someone is watching her.

She tucks herself into a ball, hands wrapped around her tucked up knees, hair shielding her face. Her eyes flicker toward Alistair briefly, trying to gauge the threat he poses, but he just looks tired. His hair is a tousled mess, and he blinks bleary eyes as he tries and fails to make eye contact with her. He sighs heavily. 

“The dreams were terrible for me, the first night,” he offers. 

Rhyanon shrugs. She vaguely understands what he’s talking about: there had been unsettling nightmares, flashes of a monstrous beast and an unearthly screaming, hordes of darkspawn as far as the eye could see. But those visions pale compared to the reality of what she’s been through over the past several days. 

“He killed him,” she says flatly. 

Alistair pales. Duncan has been a hero to him, rescued him from the Chantry and been almost a father to him. To know that he is capable of something like that - of cold-blooded murder, just to keep the Grey Wardens’ secret… Alistair shakes his head, trying to protest the very idea. 

“Will he kill me if I hesitate?” Rhyanon persists. “If I do something he doesn’t like?”

“Of course not!” 

Rhyanon clearly doesn’t believe that answer, but she doesn’t believe Alistair won’t kill her either, given half a chance. She knows how to stay alive. It’s that skill that brought her here. 

She pushes herself to her feet and ties her hair back. Duncan arrives at their campfire then. He is resolutely determined not to talk about the previous night. Rhyanon is okay with that - it’s almost like the Harrowing, after all, an initiation spoken about in hushed whispers. 

“Come on,” Duncan said. “We’re needed.”

Alistair shoots Rhyanon a look, but he doesn’t ask what they’re needed for, so she doesn’t either. 

Duncan leads them through the camp to a comparatively deserted area occupied by a large tent. When they go inside, the king is there, standing behind a table with a scowling dark-haired man. Cailan looks up as soon as Duncan pushes open the flap of the tent, and a wide grin lights up his face. “The Grey Wardens!”

“We are here to serve, your majesty.” 

Cailan waves them closer, and Alistair takes the few steps forward toward the table at Duncan’s silent urging. After a moment, Rhyanon follows. 

She stares down at the map of the battlefield, but the truth is beyond games of chess in the Tower, she has no experience with commanding troops or strategizing the kinds of plans that will lead to a victory. 

“Duncan and I will lead the battle. The soldiers have had success against the darkspawn before.”

“And yet there has been no sign of the archdemon,” the dark-haired man growls.

“This _is_ a Blight,” Cailan insists. He looks to Duncan for reassurance, and the Warden nods. 

The dark-haired man just scowls further. “You have too much faith in these Wardens.” 

“Loghain, please.” The king’s advisor lapses into silence. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Cailan a crisp nod as he settles back on his heels to hear the boy’s plan. Cailan’s eager eyes meet Alistair’s for a second or two, then skip over to Rhyanon. “I’ll need you two to storm the Tower of Ishal and light the beacon, so that Loghain’s forces can come in and flank the horde.” 

He traces his hand over the map of the battlefield, showing where the charge will take place. 

“I’m not - we’re not going to be in the battle?” Alistair asks carefully.

“The beacon is absolutely critical. I trust the Wardens more than anyone else. I need you for this task.”

The king may be young, but Rhyanon thinks his determination is impressive. She watches Alistair out of the corner of her eye, curious what he’ll say. 

In fact, the Warden-templar says nothing, but he nods. 

Loghain begins speaking to Cailan, entirely ignoring the Grey Wardens. Duncan herds Rhyanon and Alistair out of the command tent. “If you have any further business, I suggest you take care of it now. When tomorrow dawns, we will be fighting for our lives, along with all of Ferelden.”

Alistair heads for their section of the camp. Rhyanon doesn’t exactly follow him, but she has nowhere else to go. Her new mabari barks and rushes at her from the edge of the cold fire where he’d been waiting. He circles her legs a few times and then licks at her hand. Rhyanon crouches down to pet the dog. Her hand runs down his surprisingly smooth back, and when she looks into his eyes, she sees a keen intelligence. He barks once again, and she smiles. She’d thought she’d be afraid of the dog, but she isn’t. He may be her only friend here. 

She lays down next to him and cradles the back of her head with her hands, staring up at the sky. Butterfly wings batter inside her stomach, and her mind churns as she tries to resolve everything that has happened to her since her failed Harrowing. She’s a Grey Warden now, and she doesn’t have any idea what that means except for what Duncan told her as he rowed them across the lake, taking her away from Kinloch Hold: he’d said he needed her to be a fighter. She’d immediately agreed.

And now, on the eve of a battle she won’t be fighting, she finds herself at loose ends. She knows how to be a warmage, even if all of the Circle’s representatives in this camp are years if not decades older than she is. But all she’s meant to do is light a beacon. With Alistair. No matter how much she may want to, it seems she can’t get away from him. 

She calls flame to her fingertips and watches it dance in her hand. A fire like this one will turn the tide of a war, if she does her job tomorrow. Her dog watches the fire intently. Rhyanon reluctantly lets the magic go, and reaches out to pet the mabari. She sits there with him for what feels like a very long time.


	3. Warmage

Everyone in the camp is restless. Rhyanon passes men praying, bowing their heads in front of pink-clad church women. Others are cleaning their weapons or getting in one last meal before the fight. 

Trumpets blow, announcing the sighting of the darkspawn in the distance. The camp empties as the soldiers run to their positions, setting up to defend Ostagar against the coming threat. Rhyanon spies a few of the mages, their Circle robes setting them apart from the rest of the men and women in heavier armor. 

She follows Alistair across the bridge toward the Tower of Ishal, as below them the battle begins. She sucks in a shocked breath at the sight of the skirmish in front of the tower. A few of Cailan’s scouts fight off hurlocks and genlocks, and they are heavily outmatched. 

“There weren’t supposed to be any darkspawn here!” Alistair calls. 

Rhyanon shrugs. It doesn’t matter what was supposed to happen, there is a fight here now, and she has to be ready for it. She takes a deep breath and gathers her mana, and then releases it, in the form of lightning bolts of energy that surge from her fingertips and wrap themselves around the nearest darkspawn. 

Alistair rushes forward with his sword, charging the darkspawn standing to the right of the one Rhyanon has taken on. Rhyanon can’t concentrate on watching him fight - but it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing with that sword. She takes another deep breath and throws fire and ice and lightning at the darkspawn in front of her until it falls. 

She takes a second to look up, and the battlefield around the tower is clear - for now. “Come on,” she insists, pushing closer to the structure, closer to their goal. To her surprise, the king’s fighters follow her, despite knowing what she is. Alistair takes up the rear, guarding their backs. 

There are just as many darkspawn inside the tower as there were outside. They don’t seem to have a strategy beyond sheer numbers, yet here they are, cut off from the rest of the horde. Rhyanon draws a line in fire between herself and the nearest three or four. One of the king’s men draws a bow and begins launching arrows at the largest of the nearby darkspawn. 

Rhyanon continues throwing fire and ice and lightning, barely thinking enough to aim, hitting one target after another just like she did in the practice sessions at Kinloch Hold. She is using mana so quickly, though. She can’t let herself be drained. 

She feels the crackling surge of mana being drawn by someone else, and she looks up, searching for the source. Her heart sinks when she realizes it’s another darkspawn mage. She doesn’t have enough mana left to go up against another spellcaster, and she feels a rising panic at her expectation of failure. Only she’s not just facing some brief punishment from her instructors at the Tower. Everything is real now. Her life is on the line. And if they don’t get the beacon lit, maybe the entire army’s lives. 

The darkspawn mage leers at her, a cruel imitation of a smile on its face. Rhyanon throws up a barrier - a shimmering wall around herself that will absorb the energy of whatever attacks the darkspawn throws. But it takes concentration to maintain it. Concentration, and mana she doesn’t have. 

Suddenly, the darkspawn howls, and fumbles the spell it was about to cast. Rhyanon doesn’t take too long to wonder why. She drops her barrier and the fire wall, and the king’s men rush in with their swords to finish off what she and the archer had started. Alistair hangs back with her, and she suddenly understands: Alistair the templar had drained the darkspawn’s mana, leaving it vulnerable. She should be grateful, because he is supposedly on her side, but all she can do is recoil. 

“Catch,” he calls, and she’s moving on instinct before she can second-guess it, and a familiar vial filled with blue liquid-light lands in her palm. She stares at it for just a second, before popping it open and downing its contents. But though she has the power now to cast new spells, this room seems clear of darkspawn. Their black blood stains the floor. The king’s soldiers are looking to her for direction. Maker knows why. She’s an inexperienced soldier and an inexperienced leader and an inexperienced Grey Warden. 

“Come on,” she says, heading directly for the stairs leading upward toward the next level of the tower. If they want to light the beacon, they’ll have to make it to the very top.   
  
When they get to the second floor, the darkspawn are waiting for them as expected. At least this time, they’re prepared. Alistair steps in front of Rhyanon, shield held ready to protect them both. Rhyanon stays back with the archer and follows his arrows with ranged spells. Alistair glances over his shoulder, and seeing that she seems to be handling herself well enough, joins the rest of the swordsmen in slashing the darkspawn down where they stand.

Rhyanon is panting and sweat-soaked by the time they make it to the stairway leading up to the next floor. Darkspawn blood is spattered all over her borrowed armor. And they are running out of time. Out there, the larger army is fighting for its life, and without the beacon to send in reinforcements, those soldiers have no hope of survival. With this knowledge, Rhyanon grits her teeth and starts the climb.

The third floor is much like the previous two. Rhyanon barely thinks anymore, she just reacts, firing off spell after spell, corralling darkspawn into corners so that she can take them all out with a well-placed fireball or cone of cold. She’s nearly drained of mana again by the time the fight is over. The downed darkspawn lays at her feet. Its sword has fallen a meter or so from its outstretched hand. 

“Take it,” Alistair urges, so Rhyanon does. The sword feels heavy in her hands. She trained a bit with weapons in the tower, but not enough. Even so, it feels good to hold a blade. 

Alistair gives her a tentative smile which she does her best to ignore, and they’re on the way up to the top of the tower. All of Cailan’s soldiers have managed to stay alive, and they’ve even managed to coordinate battle plans somewhat, working together as if they’d trained to do it. It fills Rhyanon with, if not confidence, then at least a sense of certainty. She knows what’s coming next and she knows what to do. 

Only, when they reach the top, what they find isn’t anything they had planned for. An ogre holds court just in front of the beacon they’re supposed to light. It’s huge, looming over them, easily five or six times as tall as Rhyanon, and just as wide and thickly built. 

It turns its massive head toward the stairwell just as Rhyanon and the rest of her group reach the top step. Its beady eyes narrow, and the threat of violence is imminent. Rhyanon throws up a shield to protect not just herself, but the soldiers all around her. She’s practiced this, but she isn’t sure she can hold it for long. “Go!” she yells, and Alistair and the other men charge forward. 

The ogre roars, and slams its heavy fists down on the ground, causing the solid rock below them to shake. Rhyanon winces, but draws in a deep breath and gathers her mana. They have to get to the beacon. That singular goal pushes her forward. She waits for the melee fighters to draw the ogre’s attention, and then she lets go with everything she has, wrapping the monster in lightning like ropes around its whole body, paralyzing it temporarily so that the soldiers can get in with their swords to slash at it, drawing blood from deep wounds. Unfortunately, they can only reach the beast’s outer limbs. Their cuts are painful, but not debilitating. Alistair tries to hamstring the ogre, but only succeeds in drawing the monster’s attention. He barely rolls out of the way in time to avoid being caught in the darkspawn’s clutches. 

The darkspawn takes one weak step forward, then two. The king’s soldiers aim to form a bulwark against it, but they look so small. The darkspawn reaches down with one huge hand and picks up one of the men, shaking him with enough force to snap his neck before throwing him off the tower. 

Rhyanon pales, and she knows if she doesn’t act, she will be just as dead. Still, she tries with everything she has, pushing against the ogre with the forces of nature, lightning and fire and ice and even formless masses of pure magical energy, undirected and aiming only to hurt. The ogre stands against all of it. She drains her mana without caring of the consequences as the soldiers fall one by one, like broken toys. 

Her head spins and she can barely stay standing. Her chest squeezes painfully with every breath she takes. Alistair sees her fall, and charges toward the ogre, sword raised. An incoherent yell tears from his throat. 

Rhyanon watches with sweat pouring into her eyes as the darkspawn reaches down to grab for Alistair. He sidesteps the incoming attack, causing the ogre to roar in frustration. The volume of the monster’s challenge is felt more than heard. Alistair looks so small standing up against the creature. 

Rhyanon tries to suck in a full breath and fails, but she manages to fumble for the knife at her belt. Her head spins as she rips open the old wound across her palm. “Alistair!” she yells. He turns back toward her, and the ogre slams his fist downward. Rhyanon releases all the energy her mana contains, and her vision blackens at the edges. “Alistair,” she repeats, but she doesn’t hear an answer. 

She can’t afford to wait for one. It’s a terrible thought, but a true one: Alistair might distract the darkspawn long enough for Rhyanon to light the beacon. She draws from the blood still pooling in the palm of her hand, and uses that mana to launch a flame at the waiting pile of wood, gathered carefully to serve this purpose. 

Rhyanon waits to see the light, but the world spins away, and she sees nothing but darkness.


	4. Recruits

Rhyanon slowly becomes aware of sound outside the blackness. It’s a regular rhythm, like footsteps. It stops as soon as Rhyanon turns toward its source.

“You’re awake,” someone says, and Rhyanon opens her eyes. A wave of dizziness overtakes her.    
  
“What happened?” she tries to say, but the words come out garbled. She lifts a hand to her forehead, trying to quell the pain blazing there. 

“My mother will wish to see you,” says the voice. 

There’s a whimper and a whine, and suddenly the dog -  _ Rhyanon’s  _ dog - is pushing his nose under her hand, searching for affection. Rhyanon scratches at the dog’s rough fur, and listens to his happy bark as she frowns at their visitor. 

“Your… mother?” 

She squints her eyes and wills her blurry vision to focus. Slowly, the mismatched input of color and shape resolves into the sight of a dark-haired young woman, someone Rhyanon has seen before. “You’re the Witch of the Wilds,” she murmurs. 

“Morrigan,” the woman corrects. Rhyanon nods. The movement hurts her head. “Your friend will wish to know that you yet live.” 

Rhyanon just stares at her. She doesn’t have any friends. Not out here, anyway, and Kinloch Hold is long behind her. 

“Can you stand?” Morrigan asks. 

Rhyanon isn’t sure, but she gives it a try. Her legs are weak and shaky, barely able to hold her weight, but she presses her hand to the wall and lets it support her. Morrigan makes a sound of disgust, but she places her arm around Rhyanon’s waist and half-carries her out to the swampland that surrounds the home she’d woken up in. 

Alistair and Morrigan’s mother - Flemeth - stand at the edge of the muddy water that stretches deep into the surrounding dark forest. Alistair turns first, and the dark look on his face stirs up a sense of dread in Rhyanon. She looks past him, her eyes finding Flemeth instead. 

“Ah, so you awaken, girl.”

“What happened?” Rhyanon asks, and this time, the question is clear and sure. 

Flemeth smiles, but the expression looks foreign on her face. “I saved your life, of course. Yours, and that of the young man standing here.” She nods toward Alistair. “How much do you remember?” 

Rhyanon quests through her mind, trying to pull something concrete out of the fragmented pieces. 

“There was an ogre,” she finally decides. “And…” And there were other men, fighting alongside them. They all perished at the ogre’s hand, before this Flemeth decided to step in and save the day. Ever since Duncan took her from the Circle, Rhyanon has been surrounded by death. And… “The beacon,” she chokes out. 

A dark shadow crosses Flemeth’s face, though she shows no sign of remorse or sadness. “Your beacon was lit,” she begins, and Rhyanon feels a swell of hope crest through the waves of dread and terror. “But the army that was to respond to it… quit the field.” 

Rhyanon finds herself searching for Alistair, trying to make sense of what she’s hearing.

“They’re dead,” he says flatly. “Duncan… all of them. Even the king.”

His grief is raw and terrible, despite his blank face and the hollowness of his words. Rhyanon reaches out to touch him, to try to comfort him, but he pulls away from her. When he turns, the horror and fear written all over his features are directed at her. 

“You used blood magic!” Alistair yells, and this time his voice isn’t dead, but instead rough and ragged. 

Rhyanon clenches her fist around the still-burning line on her palm, and fights the memories of flame and darkness that threaten to overwhelm her. “I used it to save your life!” she chokes out. “Maker knows why!” 

She looks to Flemeth for help, but the old woman says nothing. Morrigan, too, watches the exchange with little comprehension. 

Rhyanon recoils from Alistair, pulling her hand back and crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Twice in as many weeks that she’s done the unforgivable. And if Duncan is truly dead, there is no one to save her this time. 

Rhyanon turns away from Alistair’s searing gaze, and runs back into Morrigan’s little hut. She sinks onto the bed and curls her knees up to her chest, trying to quell the spikes of mana that rise up in response to her emotions. 

She glances up, long minutes later, as someone enters the room. It’s Alistair, and Rhyanon swallows hard. She can’t help the fear. This is a  _ templar _ , and she is a maleficar. Duncan may have saved her life, but he’s not here. “If you’re here to kill me, just do it,” she begs. 

“I’m not here to kill you.” Alistair stops just inside of the doorway, head bowed, refusing to make eye contact. “I came to see if you’re alright.”

“You’d help a blood mage?”

“We’re the only Grey Wardens left. We have to help each other. And…” he pauses this time, his eyes flickering up to hers. “You did save my life.”

Rhyanon neither agrees nor disagrees. Without her fire to light the beacon, they would have all been dead… “I don’t suppose it matters, anyway,” she says quietly.

“Don’t say that.”

Rhyanon remembers the frantic battles in the Tower of Ishal, the oncoming horde they’d seen on the bridge of Ostagar as they veered off toward their own goal. The king’s entire army couldn’t fight that. How are the two of them supposed to do so? 

“Rhyanon, we can’t stay here,” Alistair insists. “Loghain is hunting us, and… the Blight…” he looks lost, in pain, almost like a little boy, but Rhyanon cannot bring herself to feel pity for him. “We have to stop the Blight.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do about it!” she snaps. 

She isn’t in charge here.  _ Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him _ . She’d always hated those Chantry verses, spit in her face and used to justify all manner of sins. But they’ve corroded their way inside of her, too, after so many years. Irving was teaching her how to be a leader, but even the First Enchanter has little real authority. 

“Rhyanon, please.” His determined insistence begins to push at her defensive fury. She sighs, and gets to her feet. At least this time she can stand up without growing dizzy and falling. 

“What are our options?” she demands. 

Flemeth has nothing like a map of the Wilds or of the more civilized cities and towns of Ferelden that surround it, but she has her daughter, who knows the land like she knows her own body. 

“What are we supposed to do with a Chasind apostate?” Alistair whines, when Flemeth insists on sending Morrigan with them. Rhyanon nearly hits him. 

“I don’t think we can be too picky about help when it’s offered,” she spits, and the templar wisely bites his tongue. 

“Do I have no say in this?” Morrigan asks carefully, and Rhyanon tenses up. She knows what it’s like to be pushed into someone else’s battle without your wishes being taken into consideration.

Flemeth simply rolls her eyes. “Please, girl. You’ve been itching to get out of the Wilds for years.” 

Rhyanon expects the girl to argue, but Morrigan says nothing, simply looks to Rhyanon, as if waiting for permission to leave her home and family behind. 

“You don’t have to-” Rhyanon starts, but the look on Morrigan’s face leaves her trailing off before she can finish the thought. “Alright, then,” she says instead. “Let’s get going.”

She is all too happy to let Morrigan take the lead. The Chasind girl is nearly silent as she leads them through the marshy pathways. Rhyanon fears she will take them back to the battlefield, but it seems that Loghain has posted scouts in the ruins of Ostagar, looking for them. Morrigan guides them through other trails. 

“We will soon reach the village of Lothering,” she tells them, after some indeterminate number of hours. Rhyanon is hopelessly lost, and one glance at Alistair proves he’s faring no better. Surely the templars have been given some sort of training in navigation and survival - how else would they have any hope of capturing runaway mages? - but maybe none of them, except Morrigan, can hope to fare well in the notorious Korcari Wilds. 

“We can stop for supplies,” Alistair says. Rhyanon agrees readily. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might need supplies - everything she’d ever used had been provided for her by the Circle. How will they pay for food, camp gear, whatever else they’ll need? She doesn’t have any money. Alistair tells her not to worry about it, but he looks plenty worried. 

When they arrive at the village, it’s to find it nearly overrun with people fleeing the Blight. Children cry in the middle of the square, and Chantry women argue with merchants, accusing them of taking advantage of the faithful. The merchants have the things that Rhyanon and her companions need. The Chantry priest practically throws herself at Rhyanon when their small group approaches the wagon full of goods. But it isn’t to beg for her help. No, the old lady practically demands it. Rhyanon bristles. It’s only the fact that she’s wearing borrowed leather armor that prevents the templar and the others in the village from identifying at first glance what she is. If they knew, they’d be clapping her in irons. Or killing her on the spot. 

“Why should I help you?” Rhyanon asks, and Alistair’s eyes widen. Morrigan smiles.    
  
“This man is bleeding good men and women of everything they have,” the Chantry priest whines.   
  
“I’m a businessman!” the merchant protests. 

Rhyanon studies his little cart, already picking out the things she’ll need. “How much business can you do with the Chantry hounding you all day long? Surely something is better than nothing?” 

The man glances between Rhyanon and the Chantry priest, his eyes alight with greed. “If you can get her off my case,” he growls. “I’ll give you a discount on everything in my shop.”   
  
Yes, he’s certainly noticed the way Rhyanon’s been eyeing his merchandise. 

Rhyanon thinks about the darkspawn horde that had overrun Ostagar. Those creatures are on the way here; Lothering is right in the middle of their path. “The refugees need help,” Rhyanon pleads with the Chantry priest. “You stand to gain nothing by arguing with this man. You’ll both die before the argument can be won!” 

That wouldn’t stop many of the Chantry people Rhyanon knows, but this woman takes another glance at the merchant and then nods. “I suppose you’re right.” She beckons Rhyanon closer. “Come,” she orders. “There is much to be done.” 

Rhyanon glances at Alistair, but he just shrugs, falling into step behind the old woman. Morrigan sighs heavily, clearly wanting to protest, but she’d been thrown in with these two Wardens, so she would put up with them. For now. 

Rhyanon slows as they approach the Chantry, sickened by the sight of a large cage standing outside. Within, a prisoner stands. She has never seen one of the Qunari, has barely even heard of them, in fact. But it’s obvious enough what she’s looking at. “What is this?” she asks. 

“Rhyanon…” Alistair warns, but Rhyanon whirls on him and on the Chantry priest both. 

“He is a murderer,” the priest says evenly. “He slaughtered children.” 

“How long has he been in there?” 

The priest doesn’t answer, so Rhyanon turns to the prisoner, pleading silently that he say something in his own defense. 

“The priest speaks the truth,” the Qunari says. “I killed a family, and so I remain here in this cage.”

“Why?” Rhyanon asks, though what she’s really asking is up for interpretation: ‘Why did you kill them?’ or ‘Why are you in a cage?’ or even ‘Why don’t you want to get out?’ 

Her skin itches and her stomach tightens. She hates the thought of being trapped, being trapped and tortured by the Chantry especially. Her mana swells within her, though she keeps it under careful control. 

She watches the Qunari with an unblinking gaze. He barely moves, but his chin tilts toward hers as he replies, with his rumbling voice. 

“I lost my sword,” he says, and if that’s supposed to explain anything, it doesn’t. 

“Rhyanon, come on,” Alistair pleads. 

But she’s shaking her head before he even finishes uttering the words. Murderer or not, she won’t leave this once proud soldier to slowly starve while the Chantry spews righteous venom just feet away. 

“What if I can get you out of here?” she asks the Qunari carefully. 

Now it’s his turn to ask, “Why?” 

“Because we’re in the middle of a  _ Blight _ ,” Rhyanon insists. “We need warriors. That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“I was. Now, I am nothing.” 

“Surely you don’t want to die!” 

“I lost my sword,” the Qunari repeats. 

“I’m getting you out of there,” Rhyanon promises. “What you do after that is up to you.” 

The Qunari says nothing, which Rhyanon takes as tacit agreement. She whirls around and begins storming toward the Chantry, ignoring the priest who watches her, baffled. Alistair hurries to follow her, but he seems nearly as confused. Morrigan rolls her eyes, but she joins them. Her gaze sweeps over the darkened interior of the Chantry, and she doesn’t bother to conceal her disgust. 

Rhyanon stalks toward the back corner of the small room, where the Revered Mother sits in quiet conversation with a young acolyte. As soon as the girl looks up, eyes wide, the Revered Mother gets to her feet.

“Who are you?” she asks, taking in Rhyanon’s armor and weapons. Alistair and Morrigan stand close behind her, making the priest even more suspicious. “You are no ordinary refugees. What are you? Deserters? Many fell at Ostagar.”

“You know about that?” Alistair asks quietly. 

Rhyanon shakes her head fiercely. Who cares? “I want you to let the Qunari go,” she demands. 

A shadow crosses the Revered Mother’s face. “The Qunari is paying for his sins against the Maker.”   
  
“Qunari don’t believe in the Maker,” Rhyanon says testily. She doesn’t know much about them, but she knows that much. Still, it’s exactly the wrong thing to say. 

“So he is not only a murderer but a heretic,” the Revered Mother insists. “I fail to see why I should release him to you.”

“Because we’re Grey Wardens!” Alistair blurts out. 

The Revered Mother’s quiet smile is distinctly unnerving. “There are soldiers in the village seeking two Grey Wardens,” she says calmly. 

Rhyanon’s stomach flips. Is this all she is, now? An apostate on the run? 

“We have the right to conscript anyone who can help us in our cause,” Alistair presses. “A Qunari warrior will be a great asset in the fight against the darkspawn.” 

“You claim the Right of Conscription?” the Revered Mother repeats. 

“Yes,” Rhyanon says. Because once they get the Qunari she doesn’t care if they stay in this town. If Loghain’s men are looking for them, they need to get out as fast as possible. 

The Revered Mother is clearly not happy, but she is unwilling to put her own little Chantry in the middle of a political war, particularly since she and her flock will be fleeing for their lives in a matter of hours. The Grey Wardens exist to fight the Blight. She trusts them more than she does any common soldier, even one who wears the colors of the Hero of the River Dane. She reluctantly pulls a key from a cord around her neck and hands it to Rhyanon. “Hurry,” she urges. “I cannot keep Loghain’s men from continuing their search for very long.” 

Rhyanon takes the key, instructs Alistair and Morrigan to return to the merchant to pick up whatever provisions they can, and heads for the Qunari’s cage. She walks tall, pretending she can’t feel the Revered Mother’s sharp gaze on her, but no betrayal falls down on her. At least not yet. 

The Qunari looks at her with his unblinking stare as she slips the key into the padlock holding the cage shut. The warrior looks strong enough to be able to break the lock. Rhyanon wonders yet again why he hadn’t. He’d really stood there slowly starving for weeks? She can’t even imagine. And now, the door is wide open, and he’s just  _ looking  _ at her. 

“You’re free,” Rhyanon prompts.

“I lost my sword,” the Qunari says, yet again.

“Well, if you come with me you can look for it?”

The Qunari grunts out a sound that might be an acknowledgement, and then he steps out of the cage and begins to follow Rhyanon. The others in the village give them a wide berth as they make their way back to meet up with Alistair and Morrigan.

But trouble is blocking their path. A group of Loghain’s mercenaries nearly has Alistair and Morrigan surrounded, though Morrigan hardly seems intimidated. 

And while Morrigan begins weaving a spell, a woman in Chantry robes is going after the men with a pair of vicious looking daggers. Rhyanon freezes. As soon as she does so, one of the mercenaries closes in on her, a cruel glint in his eye. 

The Qunari steps between Rhyanon and the threat. He is weaponless, but his size alone is enough to give the man pause. Rhyanon takes a breath and calls her mana, focusing enough to shape it. The soldier’s eyes widen as soon as the flame appears in her hand. Rhyanon gets the feeling he hasn’t had to fight against magic very often. He advances on her, but she launches her fireball. The force of it pushes him backward to land on his ass, and his unprotected skin is burning. His screams ring out above the sound of the battle. 

One of the other men falls at the Chantry sister’s feet, still bleeding. Alistair fights a third, the familiar clanging of steel on steel marking the progress of their duel. 

Only when the mercenaries lie still on the ground, unconscious or dead, does the woman in Chantry robes introduce herself. “I am Sister Leliana,” she says smoothly. “And I know who you are.”

Rhyanon narrows her eyes, not at all comfortable with the idea of the Chantry keeping slippery and mysterious tabs on her.

“You fight well for a priest,” she says, putting her suspicions out into the open. 

But the woman just smiles, and tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I am merely a lay sister,” she says, which answers exactly zero of Rhyanon’s many questions. 

“What do you want?” she asks. She lets an edge of hostility bleed into her voice. 

“The Maker has spoken to me. He led me to you.”

Rhyanon raises an eyebrow. “The Maker spoke to you?” she repeats dubiously. 

“He has chosen me to accompany you as you struggle to defeat the Blight.”

“ _ I  _ choose who accompanies me,” Rhyanon insists. 

Sister Leliana tilts her head forward in a nod, conceding the point. 

She and Rhyanon both know that the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden can’t afford to turn down help. And Alistair probably has no problem working with someone from the Chantry. 

“We don’t have time to stand around and debate this. The darkspawn are coming. And Loghain will send more men.”

Leliana nods as she tucks her knives away. “Lead on.”


	5. Ancient Magics

Rhyanon guides them out of the little town, but as soon as they reach the bridge, they are halted by a group of bandits, standing ready to collect a “toll.” Rhyanon doesn’t have enough money that she can afford to throw any of it away, and she knows that giving in to their demands will only prove that she’s an easy target. 

“Do you really want to fight a mage?” she asks, ready to call lightning to her hand.

The leader’s eyes widen. 

Rhyanon holds up her hand, showing the electricity crackling around her. She can hear Morrigan shifting position behind her, clinging tightly to her staff. 

“Just go,” the bandit insists. 

“You will not take advantage of these refugees, do you understand?” 

Rhyanon isn’t even sure why she cares. It’s not like the common people of Ferelden have ever done anything for her. But there are kids who will die if they remain in the darkspawn’s path. 

The man nods, knowing that a few coins scraped from farmers isn’t worth his life. Rhyanon watches as he leads his people into packing up their small cart and moving on. She knows it’s likely that they’ll set up one of those checkpoints somewhere else, but she’s glad she could clear Lothering of trouble without having to take any more lives. She glances over her shoulder to see Leliana smiling approvingly. 

They continue on their way. Rhyanon lets Morrigan lead, but now that they’re out of the Wilds, the Chasind is no longer in her element.    
  
“Where are we going?” Alistair asks, after they’ve followed the Kingsroad for a couple of hours.   
  
“Why are you asking me?” Rhyanon wants to know. 

Alistair shakes his head. “I’m no leader.”

Alistair is a templar and Rhyanon is a mage. It goes against everything she knows about the world for him to defer authority to her. It makes her squirm inside, though she is careful to maintain her outward calm. “Do you still have the treaties?” she asks, and Alistair nods. 

“We have to use them. We have to find the elves, the dwarves…”

“Well, the dwarves will be easy to find. We know exactly where Orzammar is.” 

“That’s where we’re going, then.”

Alistair’s brow is still wrinkled in confusion, but he nods again, rolls up the treaties, and stuffs them in his pack. Still, he finally, hesitantly, voices a small protest. “Orzammar is so far away, though. We’ll lose so much time getting there.”

Rhyanon sighs heavily. “Are you letting me be in charge, or aren’t you?” 

“We could ask for help in Redcliffe. The arl is a good man. There’s no way he would support Loghain’s men, not if he knows the truth.”

“Doesn’t that make it one of the first places Loghain will send his men?” 

“Redcliffe isn’t that far from the Circle.”

“No,” Rhyanon says, in a voice that makes it clear that it is not up for discussion. She is  _ never  _ going back to that place. 

“We don’t have any idea where to find the Dalish. What are we supposed to do? Just camp out in a forest and hope they come to us?” 

“There is a Dalish tribe in the Brecilian Forest,” Morrigan says. “It would not be difficult to find evidence of their presence there.”

“How do you know that?” Alistair asks. 

Morrigan rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer the question, but Rhyanon still trusts her. “How far away is this Brecilian Forest?” She unrolls the map they’d gotten in Lothering and watches as Morrigan points to the forest’s location in relation to their current camp. It is only a few days’ travel, at most. But to get there, they will have to follow approximately the same path as the darkspawn horde. It might be a risk they have to take. Rhyanon can’t see any other way. 

“The Brecilian Forest is home to old magic,” Morrigan warns. “It is more ancient even than the Korcari Wilds.” 

“The Dalish are known to be hostile toward humans,” Leliana adds. “We will not be welcome there.” 

“We have to try!” Rhyanon demands. So what if it’s dangerous? They’re supposed to be fighting a  _ war _ , aren’t they?

Morrigan leads them off the main road and keeps them skirting the edges of the scattered farms and villages, many of which are abandoned anyway. 

The sun is rapidly setting, and they need to set camp. They pitch their tents in a clearing surrounded by a few scattered trees. They’ve barely finished when a wagon rolls up. Leliana has an arrow nocked before Rhyanon has thought to react. She gathers her mana and shoots a cautious glance around at the rest of her companions. Sten has lifted his weapon, a heavy two-handed axe, and he joins her in approaching the trespassers. 

A dwarf stumbles out of the wagon, hands held up in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “Peace,” he pleads. 

“Who are you?” Leliana asks, at the same time as Rhyanon says “Were you following us?” 

The dwarf scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Ah, well. I saw your party fighting those bandits near Lothering, and I thought, what could be safer than traveling with such a group?”

“You can’t travel with us,” Rhyanon tells him. And then another dwarf climbs down out of the wagon, a broad grin on his wide face. He looks younger than the first one, and there is something… different about him. Rhyanon can’t pinpoint it, but it’s almost like he has mana inside of him. But that’s crazy. There’s no such thing as a dwarf mage. 

“Ah, Sandal!” the first dwarf exclaims. “This is my boy, Sandal,” he announces to Rhyanon and her little group. “And I am Bodahn Feddic. I promise, we won’t be in your way, and you will find us… useful.”

“I doubt that,” Rhyanon mutters, but she allows her mana to fade away, and Leliana sets down her bow. “Useful how?” 

“Enchantment!” Sandal proclaims. 

Rhyanon raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t know all that much about enchantments except for knowing that the Tranquil could do such things, attach magical effects to common objects using lyrium and other metals. 

“Show me,” she demands. 

“Enchantment!” Sandal squeals, clapping his hands. He sits down on the floor of the wagon and does… something. It involves a flash of blindingly bright light and a buzzing sensation in Rhyanon’s head. When the buzzing fades, Sandal hands her a smooth stone just large enough to fit in the palm of her hand, with a glowing rune embedded in it. “Enchantment,” he tells her, still smiling. 

“Thank you,” Rhyanon says, as she tucks the stone away. Bodahn stares at her, eyes full of such hope that she can’t turn him away, despite all her better judgement. “I need to go to Orzammar,” she tells him. “Can you help?”

“I am not welcome in Orzammar,” Bodahn says. “But if you wish, I will lead you to its gates.”

Rhyanon nods. She remembers what Alistair said, about losing time they don’t have going after the dwarves. She will look for the elves first, and then go to Orzammar if there is still time, then, if the Blight has not yet overtaken the land. “Fine,” she says. “Travel with us until then, if you must.”

“Oh, thank you!” Bodahn cries. He looks so happy. Rhyanon can’t remember ever making anyone so happy with something that she said. She turns away from the dwarf and his son, and walks over to an open patch of land where she can put up her own tent. 

Setting camp is a quiet affair. The next night, when they stop, a day’s march closer to the Brecilian Forest, everyone keeps to themselves, setting up their own tents and eating rations from their own packs. Leliana takes her turn keeping watch, and Rhyanon can’t sleep. 

The Chantry sister turns when Rhyanon approaches. She’s traded in her pink robes for a worn and comfortable set of leather armor. She smiles softly, and beckons Rhyanon near. 

“Do you really think the Maker talks to you?” Rhyanon asks softly.

Leliana’s smile grows. “I hear His voice. Feel His hand at work, guiding me on my path.”

“And you’re sure you’re not just hallucinating?”

“Do you never feel as though you are somewhere you’re meant to be? Surely, divine providence was at hand for you to survive Ostagar.”

Rhyanon shakes her head. She doesn’t believe in the Maker. If He ever did exist, the Chantry has distorted everything that might once have been real. 

A look of disappointment flickers across Leliana’s face, but she says nothing. 

“But you believe you’re doing the right thing,” Rhyanon says, clinging to that idea. 

“You’re on a mission to save Ferelden from the Blight. If there is a more righteous cause, I can’t think of it.”

Rhyanon snorts. “I’m no hero.”

“What are you, then?”

“A mage,” Rhyanon says. The word drips with all the self-hatred and hopelessness that a decade of Chantry imprisonment has instilled. Why doesn’t Leliana hate her like the rest of them?

“There are some who believe that Andraste herself was a mage.” 

Rhyanon had heard that, though such rumors were quickly stamped out in the Tower. “You believe them?” 

“I believe that the Maker led me to you,” Leliana says, side-stepping the question. “As of yet, I do not know why. But I am glad to work with you.”

Rhyanon nods slowly. She tells Leliana to get some rest, that she’ll take watch for the rest of the night. They break camp as the sun rises, heading for the deep forests where the Dalish elves await. 

The light of the sun grows obscured by shadow as the tree cover grows thick. Leliana and Morrigan offer to hunt the squirrels and rabbits that run around in the underbrush, and their dinner that night is a communal affair. Rhyanon mostly sits silently and lets the others talk, and Morrigan runs off to her own corner of the camp almost immediately after she’s finished her stew. Rhyanon doesn’t chase her. She isn’t surprised that Morrigan needs her space. Rhyanon is used to having others around, sleeping in a bunkroom, eating in a crowded dining hall. There is no illusion of privacy in the Circle. But even still, she used to run off to the bathroom to hide, to hear her own voice when no one else would listen to her. 

She can feel Alistair watching her from across the flickering campfire, and she bristles, and returns to her own tent. The Qunari watches her cross the distance, as enigmatic as ever. 

The next morning, the feeling of being watched grows stronger. There are arrows at her throat before Rhyanon ever hears or sees the elves drawing them. She holds up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Please. We’re just here to talk.”

“You come poaching in our forest,  _ shem _ , and ask for peace?” 

Rhyanon snorts, knowing the elves will hardly miss a few squirrels. “We’re Grey Wardens. We have treaties requiring your aid in times of a Blight.”

Two elves, a man and a woman, slip down from the trees and position themselves a few feet away from the Wardens’ party. “What use do The People have for human treaties?” the man asks.

“Please,” Rhyanon repeats. 

The elven man sighs and looks at his companion, who gives a slight nod. “Very well. We will take you to our Keeper.”

The rest of the elves form up around them, herding them like prisoners. Rhyanon almost resists, but the fate of the world is in her hands, so she settles and lets herself be led. Morrigan looks even more resentful than she does, and Rhyanon shoots the apostate a warning glance. Morrigan seethes, but she does not act in violence. 

The elves bring their group to a bald elf of approximate middle age. “My name is Zathrian,” he announces. “I speak for this tribe. Who are you and what do you want?” At Rhyanon’s nod, Alistair steps forward and shows the elf the treaty. “We have seen no evidence of darkspawn or a Blight,” Zathrian grumbles. “And we fight our own battle. Surely you have seen the wounded in the camp.”

Rhyanon wasn’t really looking, but she nods anyway. “Maybe we can help each other?” she offers. 

Zathrian narrows his eyes, but then nods. “My people are attacked by werewolves. As of now, they do not venture into the camp, but we cannot go into the woods to find food without being cut down by these vicious beasts. If you hunt down and kill their leader, the werewolves will no longer trouble us.”

Rhyanon squirms, uncertain what to believe, and catches Alistair’s eye just as he blurts out “Werewolves?!”

“Those are just stories,” Rhyanon protests. 

“To humans, perhaps.” 

Rhyanon looks to Morrigan, who only shrugs. She had warned of ancient magics, after all. 

Leliana is already nodding, once again seeing the Maker’s hand in all of this. Sten lifts his axe, always up for proving himself in battle, no matter the circumstances. 

The Keeper provides a map of the forest surrounding them, but even he does not know where the werewolves lair. “They will find you,” he promises ominously. Rhyanon nods her understanding. 

As they walk through the Dalish camp, some of the elves call to them, offering advice for the coming fight or asking for help. One begs for them to help find his mate, while another, a teenaged boy, wants to win over the affections of a girl. Rhyanon nods politely and promises to do what she can, but the werewolves are her priority. They are here to win help against the Blight. Everything else can wait. 

They head deeper into the forest. Green and grey dappled light barely penetrates the heavy canopy of the trees. Rhyanon shivers as they step into the shadows, the temperature drops noticeably where they are sheltered from the sun. The whole forest feels dark, darker even than the darkspawn-infested Kocari Wilds.

She once again falls behind Morrigan, letting the Witch of the Wilds use her expertise to navigate them through the twisted trees. She picks a path through the woods that the rest of them easily follow, yet without knowing exactly what they’re looking for, it’s hard to tell if they’re making any progress. 

They’ve stopped at the side of a stream so that Rhyanon’s dog can drink. But his body stiffens and he picks up his head, snarling and barking. “What is it?” Rhyanon asks, stupidly, it’s not like the dog can talk, but the others have hands on their weapons, and when she turns around it’s to see a group of humanoid wolves looming over her, snarling and snapping. 

“You trespass in our forest,” the tallest one growls. “We know why you come. The Dalish Keeper has lied to you.”

“Why should I believe you?” Rhyanon asks carefully. 

“We will not let you harm the Lady.”

Rhyanon frowns. The Lady?

Before she can get any clarification, the snarling werewolf attacks. Its claw swipes at her face, and rakes across her cheek before she can get out of the way. The wound burns, and Rhyanon hisses through clenched teeth. She steps back, out of the path of Morrigan’s conjured lightning. By the time she’s caught her breath, Alistair and Sten have stepped in with sword and axe, fighting against the surprisingly tough creature. The werewolves growls and contorts, going after them with teeth and claws. Leliana fires arrow after arrow into its toughened hide. Rhyanon casts a spell, catching the arrow tips in flame as they fly through the air. The mabari snaps his sharp teeth around the werewolf’s leg, dragging him down. 

The other two step in to defend their leader, and now the party’s focus is split. Rhyanon concentrates her spellfire on the one not engaged with Alistair and Sten. She tries to keep an eye on the werewolf on the ground, who may or may not be out of the fight. Leliana and Morrigan keep the werewolf’s attention away from Rhyanon, who catches all three werewolves in a fireball after several seconds of concentration. The monsters flee, hissing and snapping, into the forest. 

“Come,” Morrigan calls, running forward. “We must catch them.” 

Rhyanon tries to follow, but she gets tangled up in the twisting pathways of the forest. It seems the plants themselves reach out to try to trick and trap her. She cuts through them with her borrowed sword, but the process is slow, and there is far more undergrowth than she could hope to mow down in a lifetime. After more than an hour, they are forced to admit they’ve lost the beasts. 

The dog runs ahead, sniffing and scouting the path forward. He stops, growling, as they approach a small clearing. Unfiltered sunlight shines down on a large oak tree. There’s magic in the air here, Rhyanon can taste it. She isn’t entirely sure it’s the good kind. 

They stop to drink some water and shove a few bits of food into their mouths, staying alert for the dangers of the forest the entire time. Rhyanon scratches her dog behind the ears, and he barks cheerfully and licks at her face. She can see the tree in the corner of her eye, moving as if alive. 

“Come on,” she says, after a few moments. The deeper into the forest they go, the stronger and more powerful Rhyanon’s sense of magic becomes. Morrigan and Alistair react to it as well. The templar has placed himself in front of the group, ready to dispel any hostile spell they might encounter. Rhyanon doesn’t want to rely on a templar’s power, but the idea is tactically sound, so she bites her tongue and follows him. 

When they hit the magical barrier, she feels it, like a buzzing through her whole body. Static electricity makes the hair stand up on her skin. All she can see is a faint shimmer, but the power of the magic is clear. She looks around, but she doesn’t see any mage nearby who could have created the wall. And the magic feels old. Ancient. 

She looks at Morrigan, who confirms her assessment with a slight nod. The Chasind apostate reaches out to touch the barrier, but pulls back quickly before her fingers hit anything solid. “This is beyond anything I have seen,” she admits. 

“I can’t dispel it,” Alistair says. He winces as if in pain and rubs at his forehead, exhausted by the effort of trying. 

“It may have stood here for decades,” Leliana says softly. “Centuries, even.”

Sten glares at the barrier suspiciously. Rhyanon has heard that the Qunari do terrible things to their mages, but he has acted as a guard for her, shielding her as though he trusts her leadership. 

Rhyanon turns around, hearing a rustle in the bushes, and a roar. A group of four werewolves charges their group, hissing and snapping. “You are not welcome here!” one growls, as he comes after Rhyanon with teeth and claws. She holds her sword out in front of her to block the initial attack. She imbues the weapon with flame, and burns through the werewolf’s fur and flesh as she defends herself. It howls in pain and rage; gone is any trace of the human it may once have been.

Leliana’s arrows sail through the air, hitting faster than Rhyanon can follow. Morrigan casts primal spells along with hexes that are unlike anything Rhyanon has ever learned. Alistair and Sten go after a third werewolf, and the Qunari makes quick work of it. When they come out of the haze of battle, three of the werewolves lie dead on the ground. The fourth, wounded, slips back through the barrier. 

“The werewolves can get through,” Rhyanon observes. “So there must be a way.” 

“Maybe it’s a spell you have to know,” Alistair suggest, but Rhyanon shakes her head.   
  
“The werewolf didn’t cast anything. But… I think you might be right. There is something magical involved. Something he had with him.”

“Something you can wear, or carry,” Morrigan agrees. “There are many such powerful objects in the legends.”

“But where are we supposed to find one?”

“I know,” says a cackling, sing-song voice. “Oh, I know.”

Rhyanon whirls around. An old man with wild eyes and a mess of unkempt hair stands watching them. She wonders how no one heard him approach. “Who are you?” she asks carefully.

He’s a mage, she can tell that much. Old and dangerous, like everything else in this forest.

He smiles, and meets her eyes. “I’m like you,” he says, and he winks. 

She isn’t quite sure she wants to know what that means. “You can get us through the barrier?” she asks, keeping her voice calm and even. 

“But what will you give me in exchange?” 

“He’s been watching us,” Morrigan hisses. “He may have followed us through the whole forest.” 

“And so what if I have?” the man cackles. “This is my forest. I was here first!”

“The Dalish would probably take exception to that claim,” Alistair points out. 

“What will you give me in exchange?!” the man repeats, louder and more hysterical. 

Rhyanon thinks about it. A magic item probably requires a magic item as fair trade. What does she have access to? There were plenty of enchanted objects in the Circle, but it’s not like she had time to grab any on her way out, even if they were hers to grab. 

She pulls the ring off her finger and hands it to the man. He practically jumps up and down with glee. “This ring is  _ theirs _ ,” he says dangerously. “And now it is mine!” 

Rhyanon nods. Duncan had given her the ring on the ferry as they left Kinloch Hold. It is the marker of a Harrowed mage. She has no idea how he’d gotten such a thing out from under the watchful eyes of Knight Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving, but she’d been glad to have it. She’d thought she’d wanted to escape everything about the Circle, but this she’d kept, taking comfort in the way the spell woven into it made it easier to get hold of her mana, strengthening her spells just that little bit. It may have kept her alive in the Tower of Ishal. Yet it is still surprisingly easy to give it up now. She doesn’t need it anymore. She has enough strength all on her own. 

“So you’ll let us get through?”

The mage grins, and crouches down next to body of one of the werewolves. He begins skinning it as Rhyanon and her companions watch. When he has the pelt, he sings a few nonsense words, and Rhyanon can feel the ripple of magic casting outward from his outstretched fingers. He hands the pelt to her, still grinning. 

Rhyanon nods her understanding. “The werewolves can get in,” she repeats. She looks the man in the eyes, difficult to do when his dart and dance in every direction. “Thank you,” she says firmly. 

“Don’t tell  _ them _ ,” he says, before skipping back into the trees and quickly disappearing. 


	6. Ready to Let Go

They are walking through a graveyard. Old tombstones litter the ground, overgrown by the forest’s tendrils: long grass and choking plants. 

Rhyanon stops in front of a crumbling ruin, large enough to hold the entire Dalish camp they’d left behind. “This must be where the werewolves live,” she says softly. She stares at it for a while. Yes, she’d killed the beasts when they attacked her first, but going after them in their own lair is something else. They speak, after all; they clearly have some level of intelligence, even humanity. 

But she had seen the injured Dalish back at the camp, and she knew that many of them would succumb to their wounds and die. Others, if the stories could be believed, might become werewolves themselves. The Keeper had called it a curse, and for reasons unknown, he trusted Rhyanon to break it. 

They are being watched, she can feel it. She has no way of knowing how many werewolves there are inside the ruin, but they certainly outnumber her small party. “Stay alert,” she warns the others, and they nod. Rhyanon keeps her mana close, like a held breath. Her companions ready their weapons. 

The ruins are hauntingly quiet. Shadows twist over broken stone reclaimed by the forest, covered in moss and tangled in vines. Rhyanon lets her eyes adjust to the dim light. Somehow, she feels as though lighting a torch in here would be an unforgivable intrusion. She looks around, trying to get a sense of the place. It feels claustrophobic despite its size. There are hallways so long that she can’t see the end of them, and boarded up doorways and secret passages. 

When she hears the snarling growls of the werewolves, she isn’t surprised at all. Two of them jump out of the shadows, throwing themselves at Rhyanon. She lets loose a spell at the same time as Alistair brings his sword down across the lead werewolf’s exposed neck. It cuts deep and draws dark blood. The werewolf howls in pain and whirls around to get its revenge. Rhyanon throws up a barrier to protect herself and Alistair. She takes in a shaky breath, and quickly looks for Morrigan and Sten. Sten is hacking at the second werewolf with his axe, but the werewolf appears to be holding its own, dodging surprisingly swiftly, at least until Morrigan traps it within a glyph of paralysis. Rhyanon turns back to the werewolf she and Alistair had been fighting. 

She holds up her hand, lightning crackling between her fingers, and the werewolf whines and takes a step back. Rhyanon frowns. Is it trying to surrender? Will it run, like the ones in the forest had? 

“I’m looking for Witherfang,” she says, loud and clear and calm. The other werewolf also breaks off his attack and looks toward her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re cursed, aren’t you? I want to help.”

The werewolves growl and snort. Rhyanon reaches out to touch the nearest one, and healing magic spreads outward from her hand, closing its wounds. The werewolf snuffles, and then its round yellow eyes meet Rhyanon’s blue ones. It bows its head, a gesture of submission or gratitude. Rhyanon tries to be worthy of it. 

“Come,” grumbles the other werewolf. “We will guide you.”

Alistair looks distinctly uncomfortable. “It could be a trap,” he warns quietly. 

Rhyanon shrugs. She can’t see that they have any other choice. “I’m going,” she replies. “Stay here if you want to.”

She follows the werewolves, and the others follow her. The ruins aren’t empty: she passes several skeletons, human or elven or both. Giant spiders chitter in the darkened corners, though they seem to give the werewolves a wide berth. And she can feel the thinness of the Veil in this place. Alistair and Morrigan can sense it, too. 

“T’would be wise to hurry,” Morrigan advises. “This is not a place to linger.”

The werewolves lead them deeper into the ruin, down stairs that threaten to crumble beneath their feet. The stairs end at the entrance to a large room, and even Rhyanon can tell that there are traps woven throughout it. Other werewolves spill in from the left and right, flanking her group. She tries not to panic, but she is still very much aware that they might be being herded to their doom. 

As they approach the end of the room, a woman with long dark hair, naked except for the vines encircling her body, turns around and meets Rhyanon’s gaze with a soft smile. Her flesh is a pale green, the same color as the moss adorning the stones around them. And she radiates powerful magic. Even Morrigan seems impressed. 

“Who are you?” Rhyanon asks. 

“I am the protector of this forest. The wolves tell me you seek to end this curse.” Rhyanon nods. “You must bring Zathrian here to speak with us. It is he who cast the curse, and he who must cure it.”

“What do you mean, Zathrian cast the curse?”

“You must bring him here,” the Lady insists. 

“Okay,” Rhyanon agrees. 

Two of the werewolves guide Rhyanon’s party safely out of the ruins. Zathrian is not pleased when she returns to the elven camp empty-handed. “You realize the Lady  _ is  _ Witherfang?” he snarls, sounding not unlike a werewolf himself. 

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The spirit of the forest is bound to the wolf,” Morrigan explains. Rhyanon doesn’t bother asking how she knows that such a thing is possible. 

“She only wants you to end the curse,” Rhyanon pleads with Zathrian. “Don’t you both want the same thing?” 

“Witherfang and its kind attack my people on sight. I cannot trust any offer of peace they put forward.”

“If you’re with me, they won’t attack.” Rhyanon shouldn’t be able to guarantee such a thing, yet she is absolutely certain she’s right. 

“Why should I remove the curse? The humans deserve it. They killed my son and my daughter…” His grief is raw and jagged, stabbing at Rhyanon’s heart. Even after centuries, the wounds feel fresh. They have never healed. 

“But now they’re attacking your people,” Rhyanon says, as gently as she is able. “Your revenge is ripping apart families within your own clan. How can that be worth it?” 

Zathrian’s eyes glint dangerously, but he hangs his head. “Very well,” he agrees. “I will go with you to the werewolves’ lair.”

Rhyanon is pretty sure he is only trying to get close to Witherfang so he can get the werewolf’s heart himself. But she is equally sure that the werewolves, and the powerful spirit of the forest, are able to defend themselves, with or without her help. 

The werewolves are restless when Rhyanon’s group returns to the lair with Zathrian. She keeps the elven leader close, as much to prevent him from attacking the wolves as the other way around. But she casts a barrier spell around him, hoping to calm him just enough. 

“Peace,” the Lady of the Forest intones as she turns around to face them, hands out in front of her. 

Zathrian spits on the ground at the spirit’s feet, and Rhyanon tenses up. 

The Lady shakes her head sadly. “He comes for Witherfang’s heart,” she says, and there is a harshness to her voice that Rhyanon has not yet heard. “He has no intention of ending the curse. You can see it yourself.”

Rhyanon knows the Lady is right. There is too much rage in Zathrian, it corrupts him like a poison. She needs the elves’ help against the darkspawn, but she can’t leave a forest full of werewolves behind her, not if there’s a way to return them to their human state. The Lady of the Forest said that Zathrian carries the curse inside his blood. Is that some kind of blood magic? Rhyanon squeezes her left hand into a tight fist. Blood magic. It seems that no matter how much she may want to, she can’t escape it. 

She looks into Zathrian’s eyes, which are wild with rage. He looks like a force of nature, like something ancient and powerful. He’s been living for centuries. What makes Rhyanon think she can threaten him? 

“You have to end the curse,” she insists. She’s heard that blood magic can control others’ minds, force them to do what you want, but that’s no kind of magic she knows. All she has to work with are her own words. “Please,” she begs. “If you don’t, the werewolves will keep attacking the elves until no one is left. You promised to protect them. You’re their  _ Keeper _ .”

Zathrian falters just a bit, but he firms up his resolve and moves to attack the Lady. He telegraphs his intentions just enough that Rhyanon is able to step in between them. She doesn’t want to fight him, but he’s giving her no choice. She calls lightning to her hand and throws it at him while he’s concentrating on casting his own spill. His magic slips away as he convulses in the electricity that licks at his skin and paralyzes him. 

The werewolves slip out of the silent circle they’d formed around the group, and they go after Zathrian. The Lady of the Forest doesn’t fight, but watches sadly. The werewolves rip the elf apart, so viciously that Rhyanon is yelling for them to stand down before Zathrian dies. The wolves don’t listen to her, predictably, but as they snarl and howl, the Lady does… something. A wave of magic washes over every person standing in the room. It freezes Rhyanon where she stands. Zathrian seems to crumple. His blood stains his clothes and the floor around him. He takes wheezing breaths, and it’s clear that he’s in a great deal of pain. 

“It’s time, Zathrian,” the Lady says. “It’s time for us both to let go.”

Rhyanon thinks he’s going to protest, but he just takes another shuddering breath and nods. “Very well,” he gasps. Rhyanon watches helplessly as he stabs himself with his own blade, spilling out his life’s blood. The air in the room seems to ripple, and Rhyanon once again feels the dark shadow of blood magic tainting everything it touches, before it fades away. When she looks back, both Zathrian and the Lady are gone. 

The werewolves around her contort and scream, human-like, and as she watches their bodies twist and shrink, taking on human form. “Thank you,” their leader says, looking Rhyanon in the eyes. She nods. 

“So the curse is…”   
  
“Ended,” the man confirms. “No more will fall victim to it.”

Rhyanon allows herself to smile. She is suddenly so tired that she wonders at her ability to stay standing. Alistair steps in to support her, but she immediately pushes him away. “Let’s go,” she says. “We have to tell the elves what happened.”

Morrigan leads them through the forest, with Sten guarding their rear. But the walk back to the Dalish camp is quiet and calm. The sun filters down through the leaves of the trees, and birds chirp from their nests up in the branches. It seems entirely too peaceful compared to the weight of everything that had just happened, but Rhyanon’s just glad nothing comes out to attack them. 

When they reach the Dalish camp, the mood is somber, yet cautiously hopeful. “You have done the impossible!” says the Dalish mage who stands as the clan’s new Keeper. “I pledge the help of our clan to you in your fight against the darkspawn. When you call on us, we will lend our aid.”

“Thank you,” Rhyanon says. There are several other things that she feels she should say, ‘I’m sorry’ primary among them, but she remains quiet as she watches the elves grieve and heal in their own ways. She leads her group back toward the Kingsroad, wondering what other magics and fairy tales made real she’s likely to encounter on their quest. 

“You did well,” Morrigan says, as they walk. Rhyanon raises an eyebrow, surprised by the compliment. “Many would run scared from such ancient magics. Many would refuse to get involved.”

“We need the elves’ help.” 

“You are willing to risk a great deal to get what you need. I think perhaps my mother was right to trust the fate of Ferelden to you, Grey Warden.”

“You helped too,” Rhyanon points out. “If it weren’t for you, we’d likely still be wandering around in that forest-” 

She stops, suddenly. Morrigan notices, and readies her staff. 

“There’s someone here,” Rhyanon mutters, just as a woman stumbles out from a copse of trees a few feet away. 

“Help!” the woman cries, running forward. Rhyanon holds out a hand in front of Morrigan to prevent her from attacking. “My cart was attacked by bandits, please you have to help me!”

Rhyanon shakes her head slightly, suspicious. The woman holds magic inside her, just underneath her skin. It resonates with the mana within Rhyanon’s own body. Is she an apostate? She drops her hand, allowing Morrigan to begin weaving a spell. Before she can release it, a crossbow bolt sails through the air, punching into Rhyanon’s left arm. She hisses with pain, and chaos erupts all around her as the “bandits” spill into the little clearing. 

Rhyanon’s dog barks loudly, running after the one who had shot the arrow. His teeth close around the man’s leg, and a stream of curses spills out from the archer’s lips. 

Sten chops down two armored men before they can even coordinate an attack against him. Rhyanon is incredibly glad that the Qunari is on her side. Leliana assaults the ranged attackers with her bow, sending arrow after arrow into the cover where they hide. Their shouts and cries prove that she’s hitting them, even if she can’t see it. 

Morrigan turns her attention from the corpse of the mage woman at her feet to an elven man who crawls out from behind cover, flames from one of Rhyanon’s conjured fires still clinging to his clothes. Everyone else is dead. He looks around at the corpses, and wisely chooses not to move. 

Rhyanon nods at Alistair, who steps forward and binds the elf’s wrists behind his back with thick rope. Rhyanon holds her sword at the man’s throat, and keeps her mana close. 

Though the man is helpless, belly down on the ground and clearly in an unenviable position, he flashes a wide grin and looks her in the eye. “Well,” he says. “I suppose now we are all friends, yes?”

“You tried to kill us,” Rhyanon says. As if that should even need saying. 

“Ah. It was nothing personal, I assure you. All business.” His accent is unlike anything Rhyanon has ever heard. Not that she’s traveled widely. But still, who is this man, a foreign elf? What is he doing attacking her?

Rhyanon keeps her sword pointed at him, preventing him from moving. “What do you want?” she asks, and under current circumstances it sounds like a threat. 

“I want to work for you. You will find I have considerable talents that can be joined to your cause.”

Rhyanon shoots a glance at the others. Alistair looks like this is the worst idea he’s ever heard, while Leliana smiles and gives a slight nod. 

Rhyanon pulls her sword back, just a little bit, to allow the man to stand up. 

“Thank you,” he says, and it sounds sincere enough. He rubs the back of his neck. “Zevran Aranai, at your service.”

“How do I know you’re not going to stab me in the back?”

He actually laughs at that, a smooth chuckle. “You don’t. But I have nothing to gain by killing you. I have already failed my contract. To the Crows, my life is forfeit.”

Rhyanon winces at the phrasing, so similar to what Knight Commander Greagoir had said about her. 

“The Crows?”

“A guild of assassins from Antiva,” Leliana fills in. 

“Indeed,” Zevran agrees. “I was hired by Loghain to kill you. Yet, here we are.”

_ Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer _ , Rhyanon thinks, though she can’t remember where she ever heard such advice. 

“We’re fighting darkspawn,” she tells the assassin. 

He nods. “My blades will serve just as well against such monsters.”

“Why would you help me?” Rhyanon asks.

“Because I quite like the alive version of me. Even if you don’t kill me, the Crows will. No, this option is much better for all of us.” 

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“You haven’t killed me yet. That speaks well of you, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” Rhyanon insists. 

“My mistake.” 

Rhyanon takes a deep breath, trying to think through her options. Assassin or not, killing this man now, after they’d had a whole conversation and when he’d surrendered, feels like cold-blooded murder. She can’t let him go. What’s to stop him from running back to Loghain, giving up her location? 

She sighs. “Okay,” she says. Zevran grins. 

“Are you crazy?!” Alistair yells. “We’re welcoming assassins now?”

“Kill him then, if you want to,” Rhyanon says. 

Alistair’s eyes widen, but then he shakes his head. No. He doesn’t want to kill an innocent man, even a questionably innocent one like Zevran, any more than she does. 

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” Rhyanon warns the elf. 

He continues smiling. “Two, I hope.” 


	7. Nightfall

“If Loghain is sending assassins after us, who knows what else he’ll do.” Rhyanon says. She keeps her voice low so as not to be overheard by Zevran. She holds a whispered conference with Alistair and Leliana, trying to figure out their next move. 

“We have to go to Redcliffe,” Alistair insists. “If he’s trying to kill us, he may try to eliminate anybody else who might be a threat to him. Arl Eamon might be in danger.”

Rhyanon wonders why he cares so much - templars aren’t supposed to get involved in politics - but she nods. Having one of Ferelden’s popular leaders on her side can’t hurt. Her status as a Grey Warden might overpower her status as a mage, when it comes to asking for his help. Alistair says the arl is a good man. She can only hope. She glances at Leliana, waiting for input. 

“If this arl is in danger from Loghain’s men, we must help him, no?” Okay. So it’s decided, then. 

“Get some rest,” Rhyanon orders. “We leave at first light.” 

She grabs two bowls of the rabbit stew Leliana had made, and heads over to Zevran’s tent. 

“Ah, how lucky am I, to have such a beautiful woman approaching my tent,” he says with a grin and a slight bow. 

“Are you making fun of me?” Rhyanon asks bluntly. 

“Of course not.” 

Zevran reaches out a hand, and Rhyanon places a bowl into it. The two of them sit cross-legged on the ground, across from one another. Rhyanon isn’t particularly hungry, but Zevran eats as though he hasn’t had a meal in days. 

“So you’re from Antiva…” Rhyanon begins. Zevran nods, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s it like there?”

“Loud, chaotic…”  
  
“Full of beautiful women?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“And assassins.”

“Yes, that too. Sadly, I can likely never go back.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhyanon says, and she’s surprised to find that she means it. 

“Do you also miss your home?” he asks her. 

Rhyanon shrugs. “I grew up in the Circle Tower. I barely remember having any other home.”

“I understand. I have been with the Crows since I was seven years old. It is the only life I have known.”

Rhyanon wonders what it must be like, growing up among killers, learning their craft. It sounds like Zevran had never been given any choice in the matter. Maybe they’re not so different, after all. 

“That’s how old I was. When I came to the Tower.”

Zevran nods. “And now here we are, you and I. Both free to make our own fortunes.” 

Rhyanon doesn’t feel very free. She’s still obligated to stop the Blight, isn’t she? If she could truly do anything she wanted, what would that be? She struggles to answer the question. Oh well, it’s all just a thought experiment, isn’t it? She has a job to do. She looks around at the camp, at all the people counting on her to keep them safe, Zevran included. She can’t go back to Kinloch Hold, and Kirkwall holds no meaning for her anymore. All she can do is move forward. She has to hope that will be enough. 

She watches as all of her companions bed down for the night. Eventually, even Zevran disappears into his tent, though not after offering her an invitation to join him that he must know she’ll turn down. She can’t tell if there’s anything serious behind his casual flirting, but even if there were, mages don’t do relationships. 

Her dog pads up to her and bumps his head under her hand until she begins scratching him behind the ear, and he pants happily as he keeps watch with her. Hours later, Sten sits down quietly beside her, ready to take his shift. Rhyanon follows the dog into her tent, where she battles nightmares through a fitful few hours of sleep. As promised, they’re on the road before the sun has fully risen. 

Alistair says they’ll make it to Redcliffe within days. He grows more and more quiet the nearer they get, and Rhyanon can tell he’s avoiding her. She’s glad enough to evade the templar’s attentions, but if there’s something wrong with the only other Grey Warden in Ferelden, she should know about it, shouldn’t she?

She can see Redcliffe Village on the horizon when Alistair finally approaches her. He scratches the back of his neck nervously and sighs. “Look,” he begins. “There’s something I probably should have told you a long time ago.”

Rhyanon’s stomach flips. _That_ doesn’t sound good. She has no idea what he’s about to say, but a thousand possibilities flood her mind, one after the other, each worse than the last. 

“The truth is, I grew up in Redcliffe. Well, until I was shipped off to templar training, that is. But before that, Arl Eamon raised me. And the reason that he did that is that… well… it’s because King Maric was my father.”

Rhyanon just stares at him. In Kirkwall, her mother had tried to teach her about their family, about bloodlines and nobility, but that was a long time ago, and all of that became null and void when she was sent to the Circle. She thought it was the same for templars, that they gave up titles and worldly possessions, but the way Alistair is talking…

“Doesn’t that make you a prince or something?” she wonders aloud. Or… Maric is dead, and so is Cailan, his firstborn son. “Or… Alistair, are you supposed to be _king_?”

“No way!” he exclaims. “I’m a bastard, that’s all. _Just_ a bastard. I have no claim on the throne, not ever.”

He says it the way Rhyanon says she’s a mage. It’s something he’s been told, over and over again, until it seeps into his blood and he believes it. He doesn’t think he deserves to be a leader. He pushes it all on her. 

“Alistair,” she says softly. “I think if you wanted to…”

“I don’t _want_ to. Aren’t you listening?” He sighs, looking more agitated than she’s ever seen him. “I just thought you should know, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Rhyanon says softly. 

“I don’t want you to treat me any differently.”

She shrugs. She’ll always think of him as a templar first, an enemy. Except that the line she’s drawn between him and her has been slowly collapsing for weeks, and when she thinks about him, she isn’t filled with rage or fear. When she looks at him, she sees an ally, someone who has stepped in to protect her over and over again when she never asked him to. 

“Whatever you want,” she says, and Alistair relaxes noticeably. 

“Thank you, Rhyanon.”

The two of them lead the group down into the village, but Alistair is still looking worried. Rhyanon shoots him a glance.

“Where is everybody?” he wonders, and Rhyanon looks around. Even Lothering had had dozens of people out and about, making traps and selling provisions and running after children. Redcliffe seems empty. 

Night is falling - the reds and oranges of sunset tint the sky - but she doesn’t think that’s enough to account for the eerie quiet here. 

“We’ll go to the Chantry,” Alistair says. “If anyone knows what’s going on here, it will be the Revered Mother.” 

Rhyanon can’t hide her distaste quickly enough, but she nods. Alistair is right, and they have to know what’s going on. At least in front of the Chantry, they see their first people. The nervous villagers give their group a wide berth, all except for a bearded man of stocky build who approaches them with wide eyes and a hopeful expression. 

“Have you come here to help us?” he asks. 

Alistair frowns. “Help you with what? What’s going on here? Where’s the arl?”

The Revered Mother steps out onto the Chantry’s front steps, looking sad. “The arl has fallen deathly ill, Ser.”

Rhyanon’s heart sinks. “Can nothing be done?” She’s not a healer, not like Anders or Wynne, but she knows enough to at least try. If they can get to the castle…

But the Revered Mother is shaking her head. “Nothing has worked. All we can do now is pray. But that is not our only problem.” 

“What are you talking about?” Alistair asks. 

“The dead have been rising and attacking us,” says the man who had met them on the road. “Every night they come.”

Rhyanon looks to Morrigan first, somehow believing that the Witch of the Wilds will be able to help her make sense of dark and evil magics unlike anything she’s ever learned. Because surely, that’s what this is. 

“I have heard of such things,” Morrigan confirms. “In places where the Veil is thin, spirits may come through to animate the dead.”

“How do we stop it?” 

“We must find the source. The place where the Veil is torn.” 

Rhyanon nods. Still, darkness is falling. They do not have time to go searching. They have to fight. She begins giving orders to the villagers who offer to fight. They have little in the way of weaponry, using mostly farming implements, except for those few men who had once fought in the king’s militia and still have their swords. 

She puts them in groups, and puts one of her companions in charge of each group, then spaces them out along the road. The dead come down from the castle. A few of the Chantry’s swordsmen have created a chokepoint up at the top of the hill. Rhyanon joins them. 

She throws bolts of electricity and balls of flame, taking out huge groups of the living dead, who cluster together mindlessly. But they just _keep coming_. Rhyanon rotates the knights, keeping a few back to grab some water and a minute to breathe as the others keep the fight going. Luckily, the monsters they fight don’t think strategically. Their only strength is in their numbers, and Rhyanon is there to make sure that the knights don’t get overrun. 

The night passes quickly, in the haze of battle. By the time the gray light of dawn tints the sky, she is exhausted and drained of mana. But the joy of the villagers makes it worthwhile. They look at her like she’s a hero, and for the first time, she starts to believe that she could be one. 

Alistair takes her hand, worried about her and grateful to her all at the same time. “Come on,” he says. “We have to get into the castle.”

Rhyanon nods, but she thinks about what Morrigan had said. If the Veil is torn up at the castle, who knows what they may find up there? Maybe more of the dead. Maybe something worse. 

“We can’t just walk right in the front door. Not without knowing what we’re walking into.”

“There’s a secret passageway,” Alistair says. “An bolthole for the family, in case there’s ever an invasion.”

“Why haven’t they used it?” Rhyanon asks. 

“They must feel safe enough inside.”

“Lead the way,” Rhyanon says, and Alistair does. The secret entrance is hidden in the windmill she’d been fighting beside all night long. The path is damp and slick, thick with mold. The stone dries out a bit when they enter the castle proper. They enter through an old, rusted trapdoor into the dark… dungeons. Rhyanon has to force herself to remain calm as she realizes that’s where they are. Her heart hammers in her chest, and her palms start to sweat. She’d spent only a night or two in a dungeon cell in Kinloch Hold, but the memory is still enough to start her panicking. 

She is surrounded by cells closed with thick bars and heavy locks. All the ones she peers into are empty except for piles of old straw and scattered sacks and barrels. 

“Come on,” she insists, pushing her way forward. She can’t get out of this place soon enough. 

Something brushes her arm, and she almost screams. She whirls around to see Alistair, arm still outstretched, a look of confusion on his face. 

“Listen,” he whispers. “Do you hear that?” 

She takes a deep, calming breath and forces herself to do as he says, to listen. She hears clinking metal, a chain or something. And breathing. 

There is something alive down here. 

“Who’s there?” someone says. The voice is a hoarse whisper, but she’d recognize it anywhere. 

She hurries forward, stopping at the end of the row of cells, where a man is bound by wrists chained to the ceiling, his feet barely touching the floor. She can’t see the prisoner’s face. His head falls limply forward and is shielded by long, tangled blond hair. He stirs as she steps forward, reaching for the bars. He shakes his head and tries to lift it. It’s enough for her to know for sure that she was right. 

“Anders,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may or may not know, or may have forgotten, Jowan was made Tranquil in Rhyanon's origin story "Light Up The Sky" so it couldn't be him at Redcliffe.


	8. Stay Safe

Rhyanon’s heart twists, and her hands form themselves into fists. 

How did  _ Anders  _ get here? How dare they lock him up like this? He looks like he’s been tortured. 

“Anders,” she repeats. He flinches when she says his name, and Rhyanon’s heart sinks. “Anders, it’s me. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? I promise.”

He shakes his head. “Melly, you can’t.”

“Like hell I can’t!” she snaps, letting her anger flare up. If she could, she’d rip down the bars between them with her bare hands. 

Anders finally manages to lift his head enough to look at her, and her heart constricts even more. His face is a mess of bruises and dried blood, and he seems unable to catch a full breath. 

“What happened?” she finally manages to ask. 

“She wanted me to teach him. Hide him from the Circle.” He manages a wicked little grin at that, and Rhyanon knows that if Anders had found a way to keep himself and another mage safe from the Circle, he would do it with no questions asked.

“Teach who?” she asks, as Anders takes in another wheezing breath. 

“The boy, Connor. He’d started to show signs…”

“Connor’s a mage?” Alistair pipes up. Rhyanon whirls around. She’d almost let herself forget that she wasn’t alone with Anders, down here in the dark. 

Rhyanon presses herself against the bars of the cell, drawing a line between herself and Alistair, the templar. If they are choosing sides here, she has to be on Anders’s side. 

“She thinks I did it, Rhyanon. She thinks I made her husband sick, that I brought the dead to life…” Anders starts coughing, spitting blood, and Rhyanon almost starts crying. “No mage I know could do something like that.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I know you didn’t do it.”

She can feel the rising tide of her anger and grief threatening to pull her under. Familiar voices whisper at the edges of her consciousness. She feels just as helpless here as she did in the Tower, and she’d sworn to herself when she left there that she’d never feel helpless again. Maker, how must Anders be feeling? After all the time he’d spent in solitary confinement, she knows what being locked up again must be doing to him. 

“We need to find Isolde,” Rhyanon demands. She looks to Alistair as though he knows where the arlessa can be found. He did grow up here, after all.

He looks like he wants to protest, but after several long seconds, he just nods, and steps in front of Rhyanon to lead their group into the castle proper.

“Anders…” Rhyanon starts. But she isn’t sure what to say, how to reassure him when she’s leaving him down here in chains. 

“Melly, this isn’t your fault,” he reminds her, and the words are so familiar they hurt. 

“Okay,” she says softly. She squeezes her hand tight around one of the bars and swears she’s coming back to get him out, no matter what else may happen here. 

She can still hear Anders’s ragged breaths as she turns to follow Alistair up a narrow wooden staircase leading to the main floor of the castle. Her mana buzzes under her skin - she is certain the templar can feel it. But Alistair just looks worried. Worried, and slightly guilty.

He pushes open the door at the top of the staircase and looks around. But the hallways are empty. There should be servants about, even if the family has holed itself up somewhere. But if the living dead have been coming from here, who knows what might have happened to them?

Rhyanon can feel the thinness of the Veil, just as Morrigan had warned. It makes her hold on her magic both stronger and more unpredictable. She can hear the demons whispering in her head. 

Alistair can clearly feel it too. He tightens his grip on his sword and puts himself between Rhyanon and the invisible source of danger. She doesn’t want his protection, but she’s too preoccupied to push him away. She lets him lead her and the rest of the group toward the castle’s main hall, where Isolde and her son wait. The boy’s head snaps up, and his eyes meet Rhyanon’s. There is nothing human in that gaze. A cruel grin spreads over the child’s features, and Rhyanon can’t help the shiver of fear that runs down her spine. A demon’s cackle spews forth from Connor’s mouth as he jumps up and down and claps his hands. 

“Look, mother! We have guests!”

Rhyanon looks at Alistair. Connor is possessed. There may not be any way to save him. But Isolde also meets Alistair’s eyes. It’s clear that she recognizes him, but if she remembers the way she’d treated him when he was Connor’s age, she doesn’t show it now. 

“Alistair,” she says, her voice broken and begging. “Please, you have to help him.”

Rhyanon cringes as Alistair drains the mana from the room, but the demon inside Connor’s body only continues to laugh. She is tethered to this world through Connor, and no longer needs the power that bleeds in through the Veil. 

“Connor, please,” Alistair begs. He knows the boy doesn’t know him - he was gone long before Connor was born - but they are still family, of a sort. 

“That isn’t Connor,” Rhyanon reminds him. 

“No!” Isolde cries out. “Please, he is not always like this. My son is still inside. Connor, listen!” she begs. “These people are here to help you.”

“ _ Lies _ ,” the demon hisses. “You just want to spoil my fun.”

Alistair looks to Rhyanon, desperation in his eyes. “There has to be something we can do,” he pleads. 

Rhyanon shakes her head. Alistair is a  _ templar _ . He knows as well as she does that there’s no cure for possession. 

“Maybe the Circle can help,” Isolde says. “Please, I’ll do anything.” 

It’s clear that the demon is behind everything that’s happening here. If they want to save Redcliffe and awaken the arl, they have to kill it. And Rhyanon can’t see any way to do that aside from killing Connor. 

She looks to Morrigan for help, wondering if her knowledge of magic, so much wider than Rhyanon’s own, can be of any help here. 

“The Veil is thin here,” Morrigan says simply. “There may be a way to cast oneself into the Fade.”

The Fade is where the demons dwell. Even this one, bound to Connor, will have a presence in the dream realm. Is Morrigan really suggesting that they can take the fight to the demon’s home ground? 

Rhyanon has fought a demon in the Fade - every mage who has passed a Harrowing has done so. But the only way she knows to cross into that world is to use lyrium, much more than she has access to, or blood. And this isn’t the kind of spell she can fuel using a simple cut. A ritual that isn’t so different from the Harrowing will need a human sacrifice to cast. And although she’d consider giving her own life to save a little boy, it can’t work that way if she is needed to cast the spell. 

She glances at Alistair, for the first time actually wanting the templar’s input. But he isn’t thinking clearly here. “There has to be a way,” he insists. 

Rhyanon wants to believe that the Circle might help, but this is the same Circle that wants to kill her because she used her own blood to save her own life. It won’t matter to them that Connor is only ten years old; they will look at him and see an abomination. 

“He’s just a little boy!” Isolde grabs hold of Rhyanon’s hand. “Please. I’m asking you as a mother.”

Rhyanon shakes her off. Mages don’t have family, and if Connor is a mage then he won’t either. But her stomach twists with anxiety. She understands the principle of the ritual. If she doesn’t at least try, isn’t she just as bad as the templars she so fears?

“If I go and ask the Circle for help, what’s to stop the demon from just bringing more undead to life and killing you all?” she asks carefully.

“Connor wouldn’t do that,” Isolde replies immediately. 

“The lady promised to keep us safe,” Connor says, and when Rhyanon glances at him, he seems surprisingly lucid. 

“I want something in return,” she tells Isolde, and the woman is already nodding. 

“If you save my son, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“I want you to release the mage in the dungeon to my protection. He isn’t the one who started all this.”

Rhyanon expects Isolde to be shocked by the request, or angry, but the arlessa just looks bone tired. Her eyes are on her son as she nods and says “Done.” She yanks the key to Anders’s cell off the chain around her neck and hands it to Rhyanon.

“Thank you,” Rhyanon says softly. 

Alistair frets wordlessly as they make their way back down to the dungeons. “He’s an apostate,” he whines.

“So am I.”

“No, you’re a Grey Warden.”

“So maybe I’ll conscript him. Make him a Grey Warden too.” She knows even as she says it that she won’t do it, though. Anders needs to be free, not chained to a hopeless battle against an unending horde of monsters. “I’m letting him go, Alistair. You don’t have to like it.”

For a minute, she thinks the templar is going to continue fighting her. But Alistair falls silent. 

“Let me do this alone,” she says to her companions. It’s obvious Alistair doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t object. Rhyanon smiles softly, takes a deep breath, and heads down into the dark once again.

Anders stirs as she slips the key into the lock and steps into the cell. She unlocks the heavy manacles holding him hanging from the ceiling, and catches him as he falls. 

“Melly,” he chokes out. “You’re real.”

“Of course I am, Anders. I told you I was getting you out of here, didn’t I?”

“I thought I was hallucinating.”

“Shh,” she soothes, hugging him tight. “Can you walk?”

He tries, but his legs won’t hold his weight, and he’s in too much pain to move easily. There’s no way Rhyanon is leaving him alone, no matter what he says. 

But… “Anders, I have to go back to the Circle. It’s the only way to save Connor.” She doesn’t want to go back there. With Anders standing right here in front of her it’s easy to remember why she’s so terrified of the hold that place has on her. But there is a child’s life at stake, and if she can help him, she has to do it. Whatever it takes.

Anders smiles weakly. “If anyone could convince Irving to help, it’s you.”

“But you won’t come with me, will you?”

“I can’t.”

“I know.” She’d known before she asked the question. “Just stay with me a few days. Until you heal.” 

Anders nods. With the poison of magebane still in his system, he can’t heal himself. It’ll likely be a few days at least before he’s back to his old self. If he ever is. Rhyanon can’t even imagine what he’s been through. He leans against her, his arm around her shoulders, and lets her lead him up the stairs to the castle courtyard. He shies away from the rest of her group, and Rhyanon wonders what the eclectic mix of followers she’s collected must look like to him. 

“No one will hurt you,” she promises. She holds Alistair’s gaze as she says it. 

“I trust you, Rhyanon,” Anders says quietly. He stays close to her all that night, though, as the group sleeps in the village, taking advantage of beds and hot meals while they can get them.

Anders washes up with a bucket of water, and once he’s combed and tied back his hair and put on some clean clothes, Rhyanon has to admit he does look better. He smiles, but he looks worried, too. Rhyanon barely leaves his side that night. She can see Alistair looking at her quizzically the next day, when they’re on the road, but she ignores him, and he doesn’t actually ask her anything. 

Anders can’t get too close to the Tower, or he risks walking right into the templars’ grasp. Rhyanon doesn’t want to leave him, but he insists on moving on when they’re still two days out from Kinloch Hold. 

He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back, but he’s used to that. Still, Rhyanon loads up a bag full of food and simple tools to help him survive wherever he ends up. “Anders,” she says, putting her hand to his cheek. “Just… be careful, okay? Stay safe.”

“I promise.”

She knows that’s not a guarantee that he won’t be caught again - the templars do still have his phylactery, after all - but she hopes that this escape might be the one that lasts. 

She doesn’t ask him where he’s going. She’s sure he doesn’t know. 

She just watches him disappear into the forests that border the Kingsroad, and then she takes a deep breath and heads toward the Circle Tower. 

She remembers making this trip when she was a little girl. Her seventh birthday had passed in the company of templars who threatened her with every step she took. Then, as now, the Tower cuts the sky, looming dark on the horizon. 

Rhyanon looks at Alistair, wondering if he’s ever been at Kinloch Hold. She doesn’t want to ask him, though. It’s not like they really talk. Except… she reaches into her pocket and feels the amulet she’d tucked in there, back at Redcliffe Castle. 

“Alistair, wait,” she says. He slows down and turns back to her. 

She pushes the necklace into his hand, the Chantry amulet of the kind that can be found around the neck of any devout believer in Thedas. But he reacts like she’d given him something rare and precious. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“I found it in the arl’s study. It seemed… meaningful.” The symbol of faith, broken and repaired, had struck a chord within her. And Alistair seems the most likely to understand.

“It was my mother’s,” Alistair says softly. 

Rhyanon frowns. When he’d told her about how Eamon had raised him, he hadn’t ever mentioned his mother. 

“Tell me about her,” she says. 

“She died when I was born. I don’t remember her.”

“Oh.”

“It was Eamon who gave me the necklace. I grew up in the stables, with the dogs. I took care of them, for as long as I can remember.” He has other memories of his life at Redcliffe Castle, but he keeps them to himself. He holds the necklace in his hand and skips his fingers over the sharp points of the Chantry sun. 

“So that’s why you know so much about taking care of a mabari,” Rhyanon realizes. She glances over at her tent, where her mabari snores happily.

Alistair nods. “For a long time, those dogs were my only friends. But Eamon was kind to me. He told me the truth about my father, and he tried to teach me my letters and numbers. He wanted better for me than a servant’s life. I guess that’s why he sent me to the Chantry. But I hated him for sending me away, so I threw the necklace at him as the Revered Mother took me away. It hit the wall and shattered. The one thing I had from my real family, and I lost it to childish stupidity.” 

Rhyanon doesn’t have anything from her real family. The last words she said to her mother were ‘I hate you!’ 

“I’m glad I found it,” she says softly.

“Me, too. Thank you, Rhyanon.”

She smiles, and breathes out slowly. Is this something thawing between the two of them? Is that what she wants?

“You’re welcome.”


	9. Full Circle

The lake laps up gently onto the shore, calm and still on a cloudless day. Rhyanon runs her hand through the cool water and tries not to let her agitation show. The ferry is still tied to the dock. Rhyanon watches as the ferryman unties the knot keeping it tethered. He rows them across the lake. Rhyanon cannot shake the feeling that something is very wrong. 

She glances at the Tower, but it just looks like iron and stone, the same as always. The huge gates are barred shut. 

“Keeping people in, or out?” Alistair asks. 

“Both,” Rhyanon whispers. As always. 

Her group stands awkwardly in front of that closed door until a templar comes out from a side entrance, the one Rhyanon knows leads past the small garden into the kitchens. 

“What are you doing here?” the man hisses. His eyes widen when he sees her, specifically. Alistair sees it and steps forward. 

“We’re Grey Wardens,” he says. “We have treaties that require the Circle’s help in the time of a Blight.” He holds up the parchment, proving his words. 

But the templar shakes his head. “No one can come in. Not even Wardens.”

“That’s not-” Alistair starts, but Rhyanon takes a deep breath. 

“What’s happening here?” she asks, hoping her voice doesn’t sound as strained as she feels. 

The templar looks back to Alistair, but gets no help from him. He finally nods, and waves the group forward. “I’m not the best one to explain it,” he concedes. 

They use the kitchen entrance, which the templar bars behind them, and he leads them to the main hall. The Tower, which should feel familiar to Rhyanon, only feels cold. Worry claws like grasping hands around her heart. She hears Knight Commander Greagoir’s familiar voice, barking orders to the few templars around him. He stops when he sees their group coming in, and Rhyanon winces at the poisonous glare he shoots at their templar leader. It’s obvious the Knight Commander is angry. That’s never boded well for her. 

The templar starts making a weak introduction, but Greagoir shakes his head. “No introduction is necessary, Carroll.” He looks Rhyanon up and down, and this close it’s easy to tell how  _ tired  _ he looks, bone-deep exhausted. And afraid. Rhyanon’s stomach flips. “It’s good to see you well.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Greagoir nods, conceding the point. 

“I shall speak plainly, then,” he says, addressing all of them. “The Tower is no longer under our control.” Rhyanon pales. Greagoir can’t lose control in the Tower. Greagoir  _ is  _ control in the Tower. “Demons and abominations stalk the halls.”

_ Demons and abominations.  _ Plural. Just one demon had nearly destroyed all of Redcliffe. And these are trained mages. How much dark power, how much death, could they unleash? How could this  _ happen _ ?

“I have sent word to Denerim calling for the Rite of Annulment.”

Alistair squirms. He won’t look at Rhyanon. She notices immediately, of course. “What does that mean?” She asks him, not Greagoir. 

“You don’t know?”

She shakes her head, although that should be obvious. 

“It means the Circle’s beyond saving,” he says quietly. He looks so damned guilty, like it’s his fault, somehow. “They’ll kill the mages here. All of them.”

_ All of them _ , from the First Enchanter down to the very youngest apprentices. Five year old children who should be playing beneath their mothers’ skirts will now instead be slaughtered for no reason other than their proximity to a crime they did not commit. 

“We can’t let that happen,” Rhyanon demands, and she is so, so scared. 

She takes a step back, out of Alistair’s reach. She clings to Morrigan and even Sten, trusting them over Alistair and Leliana, who still retain loyalty to the Chantry that created this…  _ Rite _ . How could such a thing have been planned for, enough to have a name? Who sat around talking about this?

“We won’t let that happen,” Alistair demands, and it’s hard to tell if he’s talking to Rhyanon or to the Knight Commander. 

Greagoir sighs, and glares at Rhyanon, as if this is all her fault, somehow. “First Enchanter Irving may still be alive,” he grudgingly admits. “If you can find him… if he stands before me and swears that all is well…”

Rhyanon nods her understanding. She has seen the contentious relationship that exists between the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter, has watched their interplays over her head since she was seven years old. She’s been caught in the middle of them more than once. But she understands that Greagoir respects Irving, and may even view him as something like a friend. 

Besides, if Irving is still alive, in a Tower full of demons, she can’t leave him to face them by himself, can she? She knows Irving is stronger than many give him credit for, both magically and in the stubborn force of his personality. She learned from the best, and she owes him for all the years that he spent teaching her. He tries, and that is more than she can say for many. 

“I’ll find him,” she says, and Greagoir looks like he almost believes her. He nods toward Ser Carroll, who pushes open the large doors that lead into the rest of the Tower. Those doors feel almost as intimidating as they had a decade ago. But Rhyanon can’t afford to let her fear overpower her. 

She takes the lead, knowing this place well enough that she could walk its halls with her eyes closed. The lower levels house the classrooms, the library, the chapel, all the communal spaces where she spent so much of her life. She can hear voices coming from one of the classrooms, and she gathers her mana and heads that way. Her magic feels wrong. She’s used to her mana containing the threads of darkness and corruption that signify blood magic; it’s been that way ever since she left the Tower with Duncan. But this is different. The very air of this place has been tainted, with the as-yet-unseen demons feeding on the fear that has permeated these halls for centuries.

Like most of the other rooms in the Tower, the classroom doesn’t have a true door, just an opening that can be seen into from the hall. Rhyanon looks inside and sees Wynne erecting a powerful barrier capable of repelling threats from both sides of the Veil. A few children huddle in her shadow, holding hands. 

Wynne’s eyes widen as Rhyanon enters the room with her companions, who follow her with strangely subdued quiet. Zevran flexes his fingers around the hilts of his knives and eyes Wynne’s rippling wall of magic suspiciously. 

“What are you doing here?” the senior mage asks, but she doesn’t sound surprised. Why should she? Of course Rhyanon would come back to the Circle. Don’t they all? “Have you come to warn us?”

“Warn you of  _ what _ ?” Rhyanon asks sharply. What could she possibly warn about that’s worse than what’s already here?

“The templars have barred the doors,” Wynne clarifies. “They will only open them if they intend to attack us.” Rhyanon nods, although she wonders how her former teacher can discuss their imminent slaughter and sound so calm. But maybe she isn’t so calm, after all. She looks from the children in their ill-fitting blue robes to Rhyanon. “Join with me to save this Circle,” she begs the mage-turned-Warden. 

“ _ Why _ ?” Rhyanon asks. What is there about this place that is worth saving?

But despite everything, it’s the closest thing to a home she’s ever had. The children look at her with awe and terror, and fuck, it’s been years since she paid any attention to the kids in the Tower, but she can’t let them die any more than she could draw a knife across Connor Guerrin’s throat. 

She looks from the children back to Wynne. “I’ll help you,” she says softly, and Wynne rewards her with a knowing smile, like she’d already been sure of her answer. Maybe she had been, who knows? “It might be too late, though. They’ve already asked for the… Rite of Annulment.” The words still feel unfamiliar on her tongue. 

But Wynne doesn’t look surprised by this news, either. “The Knight Commander probably assumes we are all dead.”

“Or hopes we are,” Rhyanon mutters. “He’s the one who locked the damn doors.”

What if she’d never come back here?

Would Greagoir just wait, until there really were no survivors? Would he be the one to  _ make sure  _ there were no survivors, putting innocent mages to the sword without guilt or regret, just doing his job? Could he cut down a crying child, and rationalize it by claiming to protect the innocent people of Ferelden?

_ Mages aren’t innocent _ , spits decades-worth of Chantry indoctrination, a too-familiar voice in Rhyanon’s head.  _ Those born with magic are cursed by the Maker himself. _

For most of them, it starts with nightmares. At four or five years old, you wake up screaming in the night, hearing voices in your head that you can’t understand. A couple of months later, or years, if you’re lucky, the other signs come, when you’re angry, or afraid. Sparks of fire or electricity, enough for someone to recognize what you are, and turn you in to the Chantry. Usually it’s someone in your own family that does it. They watch the templars take you, and they pretend you never existed at all (The last words she said to her mother were ‘I hate you!’). 

And the thing is, they may as well be right, because you can’t belong to them anymore. You’re trapped inside a Tower, and one day, someone will lock the doors so you can’t get out, and wait for you to die. 

It starts with nightmares, and then those nightmares become real. 

“When Greagoir sees that we yet live, I trust he will tell his men to back down,” Wynne says. Rhyanon nods, although she wonders how much of Wynne’s hopeful tone is simply trying to convince herself that the words she says aloud are true. “He is not unreasonable,” the older mage continues. 

And Rhyanon really wants to disagree with this assessment, but the thing is, she  _ can’t _ . Because he did give her something to cling to, the tiniest sliver of hope. “He said he’ll call off the Rite if Irving is still alive.”

Wynne smiles, and it breaks through the exhaustion and fear that had constricted around both of them. “Then let’s go find him,” she says, and she takes Rhyanon’s hand and leads her through the barrier. 

Rhyanon orders everyone except for Alistair and Morrigan to stay behind and protect the children. She doesn’t want to admit that she needs a templar’s help, but Alistair has been trained to fight magical threats, and she doesn’t have any idea what they are going to run into, but Greagoir had said “demons and abominations.” Alistair can help. He wants to help. Rhyanon can deal with it. 

The first few rooms they walk through are mercifully quiet, empty. They wander through the apprentice dorms, Alistair close on Rhyanon’s heels. “Which one was yours?” he asks, as they weave their way through the bunks. 

She points vaguely toward the corner near the door, at the bunk pressed up against the wall, where she’d tucked herself up and tried to hide. She doesn’t tell Alistair that Anders and Jowan had slept across from her, Anders on the bottom bunk and Jowan up top. She doesn’t tell him about the hidden stash of souvenirs under Anders’s mattress. It isn’t there anymore anyway. It hasn’t been for years. 

Alistair looks surprisingly sad as his eyes rove around the quiet room. Rhyanon wonders why, but she doesn’t open her mouth to ask him. Soon enough it doesn’t matter anyway, because as they continue forward, the demons appear, forced through the tear in the Veil that someone Wynne had called Uldred had ripped open. Rhyanon throws ice at the fiery personification of rage that circles closer to her, and Morrigan sends bolts of fire and force at the hazy blue outline of a despair demon. Alistair stands ready with sword and shield, and as Rhyanon watches him cut through one blood mage after another she tries to tell herself that she is different. She isn’t sure she believes it, though. 

Alistair stands there, sword dripping with blood, and a teenage girl crawls away from him, crying. “ _ Please _ ,” she begs Rhyanon. “Don’t you remember what it was like here? What it felt like, with them always watching…”

“I know,” Rhyanon says, letting her anger overflow. She isn’t angry at the girl, but at the templars that forced this confrontation. Of course she knows what it’s like here. She’ll never forget. 

But she stares at the bodies littering the floor, and wonders how  _ this  _ was supposed to make anything better. 

“Go to the initiates’ classroom,” she tells the girl. “You’ll be safe there.” The girl nods, and hurries out of the room. Alistair shifts uncomfortably, but falls into step behind Rhyanon as they continue their way forward, toward the spiraling staircase that will take them further upward. 

“Jowan?” Wynne asks, as a young man steps forward out of a carefully organized stockroom, one of the places where teenaged apprentices had gone to hook up quickly without the templars seeing. Rhyanon flinches when she sees the Chantry brand on the man’s forehead: even after years in the Tower, she can’t get used to the Tranquil, can’t look at them and see anything other than a punishment to be rightly feared. Even knowing that Jowan asked for this, she wants to undo it somehow. 

Jowan’s brow furrows. “Rhyanon?” he asks. “What are you doing here?” He shakes his head. “Never mind, you don’t have time to explain. You have to find Niall.” 

She frowns. “Who’s Niall?” 

“He’s a few years older than you both,” Wynne explains. “A good mage.”

“He took the Litany.”

“The Litany of Andralla?” Wynne prompts, and Jowan nods. “Surely he does not intend to go after Uldred himself?” Jowan simply stares. He doesn’t know the answer to the question. Even Rhyanon isn’t sure the question wasn’t rhetorical. “We must hurry,” Wynne determines. 

She quickly leaves Jowan behind, though Rhyanon lingers to be sure that he is safe (“The stockroom is safe,” he says, and she has no choice but to believe him). Wynne hurries up the stairs to the Harrowed mages’ quarters, without seeming to care whether or not Rhyanon and her companions are following. More demons haunt these rooms, formed by the emotional residue of all the mages who have lived and died in this place. Rhyanon and Morrigan and Alistair and Wynne fight their way through the creatures, though the atmosphere of blood and decay grows more pronounced the higher up they go. 

It isn’t only demons that they fight. Mages and templars turn against them, their minds overtaken by blood magic and demonic persuasion. Rhyanon tries not to kill the mages, who should be on her side. The templars she fights with everything she has, especially when they hit her with mana drains and smites. They don’t expect her to be able to fight back with a sword, and she isn’t very skilled at it, but she holds her own. She tries to, anyway. One of the possessed templars overpowers her, holds a sword at her throat, and taunts her, hissing in her ears. “I remember you,” he snarls, and Rhyanon, drained of mana, scratches her arm until sticky blood paints her skin. 

“Not well enough,” she growls. “Or you’d know not to mess with me!” 

By then, Alistair has realized what’s happening, and come over to finish the fight. He takes one look at the blood running down Rhyanon’s arm and grabs her by the shoulders. “What is wrong with you?!” he shouts. “You’ll call every demon in this place to you, using blood magic!”

Rhyanon’s eyes flash with rage, and she shoves him away, sending him skidding across the room with a burst of invisible force. 

“STOP,” Wynne demands, and Rhyanon wrestles with the senior mage’s mana clash. “Alistair is not your enemy.” 

She grabs Rhyanon’s arm and casts a healing spell without waiting for the girl’s permission. “Get up,” she orders, and Rhyanon does, still dazed. Wynne pulls her away from the corpse of the templar and shoves her forward. Rhyanon feels like a little girl again. She sulks, but follows Wynne’s lead. 

“Be wary,” Wynne warns. She nods toward a dark-haired mage, sprawled out on the floor as if asleep. Rhyanon wonders if he’s dead, but then she sees the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “We have found Niall.”


	10. This Place Drains You of Everything

“He’s under some kind of spell, isn’t he?” Rhyanon murmurs. 

“He is under the thrall of a demon.”

Rhyanon opens her mouth to argue with Alistair, to tell him that he’s wrong, but she is overwhelmed once again by the sense of claustrophobic panic and something-is-wrong and she can’t fight her way out and…

She tries to crouch down next to Niall, to shake him awake, to _force_ him awake with a rejuvenating spell, but when she looks again, he isn’t there. 

And the stone floor beneath her isn’t the Tower’s floor, either. 

She sits on her ass and looks up at the unfamiliar sky, and her chest is tight and her stomach hurts, and her head is buzzing. 

It’s not that she can’t tell this isn’t real. The real world isn’t this weird sort-of-green color. Nothing feels like anything here. She gets to her feet, and takes one step forward, then another. Someone is waiting for her at the top of a set of stairs that form themselves from nothing. 

He smiles at her, and Rhyanon flinches away. She had never seen Duncan smile. She doesn’t ask obvious questions: ‘Who are you?’, ‘Where are we?’ In fact, she says nothing at all as the Warden beckons her closer. 

Her heart beats, too quickly, and she has to remind herself over and over not to trust anything here. 

“Oh, Rhyanon,” Duncan says, almost sadly. She looks around at the trappings of another castle and clenches her hands into tight fists. The real Duncan would understand why she will never feel safe within stone walls. He’d told her, in secretive whispers as they spoke in his guest quarters in Kinloch Hold, that he too fought against feeling trapped. He’d been imprisoned before, long before Rhyanon ever met him, but he offered her freedom because he understood what it meant to need it. 

“This isn’t real,” she demands stubbornly. 

Duncan sighs, but a glint of something inhuman flashes in his dark eyes. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, gently. “Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and forget about all this? You could leave it all behind.”

“I tried that,” she reminds him. “Leaving behind isn’t the same as forgetting.”

“Why do you fight?” Duncan asks her. 

“Because you told me to!” she snaps, but she knows that whatever she’s talking to, it isn’t really Duncan. 

The demon contorts its way out of the Warden’s skin, snarling at Rhyanon and lashing at her with shadowy tendrils that cut sharp as razors against her skin. “It seems only war and death will satisfy you,” the thing growls. 

“Apparently!” Rhyanon yells back, as she throws a fireball at the demon’s head. 

As during her Harrowing, the rules of magic as she knows them no longer apply. She doesn’t even try to control her spell. Her earliest teachers had taught her that mages will things into being, and she wills the demon to go away, to leave her alone. 

It dissolves into nothingness, leaving only a stone pedestal in its wake. Rhyanon steps up to the monument, which looks like nothing so much as the lyrium font she remembers from her Harrowing. She skims her fingers over the stone, and appears somewhere different from where she started. 

There is a hazy green, ever-changing landscape all around her. She can see the warped towers of the Blackened City on the horizon. And a familiar-looking mage stands in front of her. 

“Niall?” she guesses. 

“I know you,” he says. “Rhyanon Amell. You always were Irving’s favorite.” 

She nods, slightly embarrassed the way she always was growing up when the others called her Teacher’s Pet. But Niall doesn’t mean it in an unkind way, she can tell. 

“Rhyanon,” he says seriously. “You have to go back. You have to find my… my body. You have to get the Litany.” 

“You’re not dead!” Rhyanon protests. 

“Not yet,” he says sadly. “But Rhyanon, don’t worry about me. You have to get the Litany, that’s the important thing. It will protect you.”

The sarcastic part of her wants to ask why it didn’t protect him if it’s so powerful, but she bites her tongue and looks into the eyes of this dying boy, just a few years older than she is, and she promises solemnly that she’ll do as he asks. She’ll find his body, find the Litany, save the Circle. 

Niall smiles and thanks her, and sends her on her way, to wander the twisting passageways of the Fade. 

Rhyanon turns back, but she doesn’t see Niall. Instead, she sees Morrigan, standing in front of the little hut in the Korcari Wilds where she’d lived with her mother. Flemeth winks at Rhyanon, then turns back to her daughter. 

“She’s a demon,” Rhyanon warns, and Morrigan just laughs. 

“I know.” She dispatches the demon quickly, with an effort of will, and Rhyanon once again finds herself in awe of the Chasind apostate.

She opens her mouth to tell Morrigan that, but Morrigan is gone, and Rhyanon is somewhere else.

She’s in a city, that much is obvious. The buildings crowd close together and the noise is deafening. People yell at one another across a busy street, and children run in between the adults’ feet. At first, Rhyanon thinks she must be home, in Kirkwall, but it doesn’t look familiar enough to be that. It’s just that Rhyanon hasn’t been in any city since she was six years old. She walks up a narrow alleyway and into the open door of a little house crammed in between two larger buildings. A line of washing hangs in the front garden, and Alistair stands there, whirling a small child around with a huge grin on his face. Rhyanon can hear the little boy laughing. 

“Hey, Rhyanon!” Alistair calls, setting the boy down gently. Rhyanon tenses up immediately. _Nothing here is real_ , she reminds herself. _You can’t trust anything._ “Have you met my nephew?” The child toddles up to her and looks up with a slobbery grin. 

Rhyanon focus on Alistair. He’s _happy_. She realizes she’s never seen him happy before, not truly. Not like this. 

The door to the house behind them swings open, and a woman calls out to them. “Alistair, are we having a guest for dinner?” she asks sweetly. 

Rhyanon bites her tongue, and watches the scene, for just a few more seconds. Alistair is walking into a house where a hot meal waits for him, instead of trail rations scarfed down between battles. He is chased by playing children, who tug on his hand and chatter at him, smiling. What he wants more than anything is a _family_. Rhyanon’s heart sinks. Who wouldn’t want that?

 _I’m sorry_ , she thinks, before she can push the thought away, before she can wonder why she’s apologizing to a _templar_. Because he’s happy. And to save him, she has to destroy this. 

Because while he’s happy, the demons are eating at his soul, piece by tiny piece. Alistair doesn’t have the training that she does. He doesn’t know the pathways of the Fade because he’s been walking them since he was a child. He might not even know that he’s in danger. Dreams can’t hurt you. When you die in a dream, you just wake up again. Except when you don’t. 

Rhyanon thanks the Maker that Alistair had gotten through as much templar training as he had (and then, again, she wonders why she _cares_ ). She’s certain that those abilities: to resist magical attacks, to build a fortress in your mind to block out everything, those are the only things keeping him alive in here. 

It’s not only templars who learn those things. Most soldiers do. But Alistair had told her that he was sent to the Chantry at ten years old, and the thing is, she knows how the Chantry teaches mental fortitude. 

It's instinct to fight back physically when someone hurts you physically, and they let you get away with that for a while. But they're still bigger than you, it's not much of a fight. And then you're exhausted and bleeding and bruised and curled up to protect yourself as much as you can, and there's a ward up so you _can't_ cast a shield, you can't heal yourself, you can't even grasp for your magic even though you can _always_ touch magic, and not being able to feels like someone ripped your heart out. And the attacks and the hits still keep coming, so now you have no choice at all but to build that wall up in your mind and huddle behind it, nothing exists anymore except you. And you survive. _That's_ mental fortitude.

She wonders why all of her companions have been locked in their own personal cages, where insidious lies creep and tell you that everything would just be so much _easier_ if you just let yourself be happy, but she hasn't (That thing with Weisshaupt, with Duncan, didn't count. She never knew that place or that man, not really).

Maybe there really _isn't_ anything that would make her happy. Instead, she's left alone to try to fix the things that can't be fixed. Do even the demons know that these are the things that break her?

"This place drains you of everything," Niall tells her, when she returns to the in-between, the Raw Fade, where his spirit waits for her. "Hope. Feeling. Life."

And she can't help but wonder if he's talking about the Fade or the Tower.

She wakes up, and the air smells of blood and decay, and the stone beneath her hurts. This place may be real, but it still feels like a nightmare. She gets to her hands and knees and looks around for Alistair and Morrigan and Wynne. They’re all there, brushing themselves off and clutching weapons. Rhyanon crawls over to Niall. He’s cold. He doesn’t have a pulse. She swallows back tears and wonders why she’d cry for someone she doesn’t even know, and she finds the Litany of Andralla held tightly in his hand. She extricates it carefully, and takes a deep breath. 

“Come on,” she says, getting up and hurrying toward the spiraling staircase. “Let’s go.” 

She knows where they’re headed now. There’s only one place left to go. _It figures_ , she thinks. If you’re going to summon demons into the Tower, you may as well do it where templars have done it for hundreds of years. 

But before they can get to the Harrowing Chamber, she freezes, stunned by the sight of a templar trapped behind a hazy purple shimmer, a magical cage. Somehow it’s this image, this reversal of everything she’s used to in this place, that disturbs her more than anything she’s yet seen. 

He looks up, and his eyes widen, and he nearly trips over himself stumbling backwards away from her as far as the barrier will allow. _"You,"_ he hisses. 

And she realizes she knows this one.

“Cullen,” she says softly. 

She remembers his arms wrapped around her as she fought him, trying to get past him to Anders, who suffered alone under the templars’ lash. He’d tried to protect her from her own stupidity, but all Rhyanon knew was that he’d made her feel helpless and powerless the same as every other templar in this place. 

And he’d been the one to hold the sword at her throat during her Harrowing. 

The best she can say for him is that if he’d killed her, he might have felt bad about it. 

And that, of course, was before she was a blood mage. He’d have killed her without hesitation, even before… this. 

Except he stares directly at her and rants and mumbles about the demons torturing him with the one thing he could never have. His eyes are wild, and she catches the word “infatuation.” 

She really, _really_ shouldn’t be hearing this. She doesn’t want to know about this. 

She wonders if it’s true, wonders how she never noticed. 

"They caged us like animals," he chokes out. "Looked for ways to break us... and there was nothing I could do."

_She remembers crying as Anders bled, knowing she could heal him, take his pain away, except they wouldn't let her._

_She remembers holding a pillow over her head in the middle of the night, squeezing her eyes shut and trying as hard as she could not to listen._

_She remembers slicing open her own palm, sacrificing everything rather than give in when they’d decided she’d failed their stupid test._

"Gee," she says bitterly. "I wonder what that would be like."

"Rhyanon, _don't_ ," Alistair whispers, pulling at her arm.

"He wants to kill us all!" she snaps.

The Cullen she remembers actually reminds her a bit of Alistair, but she can't take his side on this.

And besides that... Alistair's not a templar, not really, but Cullen was _there_ , through _everything_. And she's supposed to feel sorry for him now?

She walks away without a second glance, leaving him to his tortures, his prison.

He deserves it.


	11. Your Eyes Open

Rhyanon fights the urge to be sick as the mage in front of her falls to the ground, gurgling, choking, spitting, and dying. And rising up again as something else, something twisted and inhuman. 

_ Abomination.  _

She has heard the word a thousand times, so much that it has lost all meaning, but now she understands it with new clarity: something whose very existence should be hated and feared. This is what the world sees, when they see her. 

“A mage is but the larval form of something greater,” Uldred tells her. 

But this is not what she is. This is what she refuses to become. 

“How can you hope to resist this?” Uldred purrs.  _ “You _ ? Do you think I have not heard your story? Yes, I know who you are, Rhyanon Amell.”

Rhyanon twists away from Uldred as he reaches out toward her. He doesn’t seem to mind. He turns to look across the far side of the room, at something Rhyanon can’t see. 

“Say hello to your star pupil, Irving.” 

Rhyanon strains to stand up on tiptoe, to see over Uldred’s shoulder. Irving is limp, bound by weaves of magic she can feel but not see. He can’t hold his eyes open, and his breathing is shallow and weak, but all Rhyanon can think is:  _ he’s still alive _ . Still, for a little bit longer. 

She has to keep Irving alive. No matter what. 

“Stop him,” the First Enchanter whispers, before he breaks into a hacking cough. “He’s building an army. He’ll destroy the templars…”

Uldred laughs, a cruel cackle that makes Rhyanon want to throw up. She clenches her hands into tight fists, ready to fight. “Of course that’s what I’m doing!” He turns back to Rhyanon, still wearing his crazed smile. “Do you truly think to stop me? Don’t you want to destroy the templars too?” 

“No!” she spits. Uldred’s fingers tighten around her wrist. 

Some insistent nagging whisper tugs at her, hissing in her brain:  _ Don’t you want to destroy the templars too? _

“Not like this!” she screams, and she lets go of all of the mana she’d been holding, sending an explosion of lightning directly into Uldred. Morrigan catches him in a paralysis glyph, and Rhyanon, still breathing heavy, starts calling another spell into her hand. 

Uldred’s cackling laugh becomes a high-pitched screaming, and then he sheds his human skin and a looming, purple-grey monster covered in spikes takes his place. The demon seems to fill the Harrowing Chamber. Its laugh sounds the same as Uldred’s, chilling Rhyanon all the more. 

In Uldred’s voice, the demon urges her to fight. And she lights up, a wicked grin on her face.  _ Fight _ . It’s what she does. She fights, launching fire and lightning and ice, one primal spell after another erupting from the well of mana deep within her. And when she looks around, she isn’t the only one fighting. 

Wynne fights to save the Circle. Morrigan fights just because. Because she's not the type of woman to go down quietly, and she may be an apostate, but she understands full well what it means for a mage to be enslaved by a demon, and she won't be enslaved by anything. And Alistair fights to protect her. To protect the mages when every other templar in this place waits outside the doors they locked for all of them to die. Rhyanon gives him a quick smile and ducks out of the way of the demon’s fist slamming down into the floor where she’d just been standing. 

All around them, the chained mages Uldred had bound and mind-controlled turn, one by one, into abominations. But Rhyanon holds the Litany of Andralla in her hand, and she repeats the words like a prayer as she draws her own blood to counteract Uldred’s blood-tie. The mages retain their humanity, and join her battle. 

With half a dozen powerful mages and a templar on her side, Rhyanon can’t lose. But the demon’s offers and promises still whisper in her mind after its physical form has shattered. Rhyanon runs to Irving’s side. 

He coughs, and meets her eyes, an exhausted smile on his face. “I’m too old for this,” he mutters. 

Rhyanon helps him to his feet, and it's eerie how easy it is to fall back into this old pattern, where he leads and she follows. Except it isn’t like she never left. She left, and she’s back now, and she can’t quite fall into step, no matter how much she may want to. 

Irving brings them to the main hall, where Greagoir still waits with a handful of his men, the last line of defense between the Tower and the rest of the world. The Knight Commander opens the door and his eyes meet Irving’s. The First Enchanter gives a slight nod, still looking about a thousand times older than he actually is.  And Greagoir actually  _ smiles _ . Rhyanon is absolutely certain she has never seen him smile before. He always looked angry when he looked at her. 

The other templars look to Greagoir for leadership, an answer to the question of what they should do now. Cullen is there, his eyes still wild and paranoid. His fingers wrap tightly around the hilt of his sword, and he won’t look at Rhyanon. 

“I will accept Irving’s assurance that all is well,” the Knight Commander says with a relieved sigh. 

Rhyanon shakes her head. It  _ isn’t  _ all well. How can they think it’s acceptable to just go back to the way things were before, when the templars took advantage of their power in horrible ways? Won’t it be even worse now? 

“You  _ can’t _ ,” Cullen insists. Rhyanon stares at him. “You can’t trust the mages. Any one of them could be sheltering a demon.” 

“You can’t just kill us all!” she yells, and before she knows it, she’s turning to Irving for support. Greagoir, too. The Knight Commander has never been on her side, but he won’t go back on his promise, will he? Irving is safe. The rest of the mages have to be safe, too. 

“No further blood will be shed here today,” Greagoir says. Cullen tries to protest, but the Knight Commander simply holds his gaze, until the younger man lapses into angry silence. 

“Thank you for your assistance in this matter,” Greagoir says to Rhyanon. 

Irving nods. “Without you here, things might have been…” He trails off. They both know what he means. He waits for her to reply, but she doesn’t. But Irving knows her too well. He’s been able to read her since she was seven years old.  “You came here with a different purpose, didn’t you?” he asks. 

Rhyanon glances at Knight Commander Greagoir nervously, but then she nods. “There’s a boy in Redcliffe, Connor-”

“The arl’s son?” Wynne asks, surprised. 

Rhyanon confirms that without asking why her former teacher would know the name of the Arl of Redcliffe’s son. She vaguely remembers Irving trying to teach her of the important leaders of Ferelden a long time ago, just in case she ever had to work for any of them. Mages don’t choose where they are sent. 

“He’s been possessed by a demon. But… if I had enough lyrium, enough help, I could fight the demon in the Fade, couldn’t I? It would be just like the Harrowing.”

Irving glances at Greagoir. 

“It will be dangerous,” the Knight Commander says. “There is no guarantee of success.”

“I know,” Rhyanon says. “But I have to try.”

“I will send you with a group of mages and templars to Redcliffe.”

Rhyanon nods. She’s not eager to have the templars with her, but it makes sense. Just in case it goes wrong, they’ll need someone trained to fight abominations. Alistair watches her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. 

Wynne insists on coming along, and Rhyanon is glad. Maybe she’ll be able to heal Arl Eamon. 

They set out immediately. There’s no time to waste. 

Everyone is exhausted and afraid, still wrestling with their haunting memories of the Circle overtaken by demons. Rhyanon feels sick, poisoned by the blood magic she herself wrought. It’s a relief to find a spot to camp. People will retreat to their own tents and keep their distance. 

The air is filled with the sounds of tent stakes being pounded into the ground. Rhyanon heads off in search of firewood and water, and nearly attacks when she realizes she’s being followed. The mage behind her throws up a barrier, just to be safe. He drops it as soon as Rhyanon lets her mana fade away. 

“Look at you,” Stephen says. “A Grey Warden, eh?” 

Rhyanon nods. She opens her mouth to try to say something, to explain, but she can’t find any words. Stephen seems to understand. She’s an entirely different person than she was when she knew him. It’s been less than a year, but she has changed beyond recognition, and she doesn’t want to go back to the way she was before: scared all the time, of herself most of all. 

“You look good,” Stephen says, and she knows he isn’t talking about her physical looks. 

“Thank you,” she says. “For helping me.” She’s not just talking about right now, with Connor, although she is grateful he’s here for that. But without him, she might not even be here now. She might have died in the Tower, another suicide no one would mourn, or even talk about. 

“You’re welcome.” 

He looks happy for her, he really does, and Rhyanon finds herself wishing she could keep him out of the Tower for good. But the only way she knows to do that is the Right of Conscription, and even if the templars let her go through with that, she’s not willing to risk Stephen’s life in the Joining. He doesn’t deserve to be trapped and tainted as a Grey Warden any more than Anders does.

He looks at her as if he can tell what she’s thinking, and he gives her one of his enigmatic smiles. “Get some rest,” he orders gently. Here he is, still looking out for her. Rhyanon nods, and lets him walk her back to her tent. 

When they arrive at Redcliffe Village, the place seems much more vibrant and alive than it had the last time she was here. The pallor of fear that had overtaken all the people has been lifted now, and fishermen work in the lake as women cook and bake and hang laundry on the lines. Children run and play, laughing as they chase each other through the streets. And the Revered Mother presides over it all, from her place on the Chantry steps. 

But Rhyanon’s familiar anxiety heightens as they get closer to the castle. What makes her think she can do this? The demon inside Connor nearly wiped out this whole town, and she wants to confront it one on one? No, she reminds herself. Not one on one. There are other mages with her. 

Bann Teagan himself opens the door to their group; the castle must still be empty of servants and guards. He looks at them with such hope that it makes Rhyanon’s stomach flip. “I can’t promise this is going to work,” she says softly. 

“Please, just try,” Teagan says. 

Rhyanon quickly glances over her shoulder at Irving, then looks back at the Bann. “We’ll need to go to the place where the Veil is thinnest. The place where this all began.”

Teagan looks distinctly uncomfortable. “That would be Arl Eamon’s room, my lady.” 

He leads them to the bedchamber, where Connor sits on a chair just outside the door, scuffing his feet across the floor. He looks up and meets Rhyanon’s eyes, then takes in the small group of mages behind her: Irving, Stephen, Wynne, Morrigan. This was the apostate’s idea in the first place, after all. 

“Have you come to make Father get well?” Connor asks. 

“I’ve brought someone who can help,” Rhyanon says. She points to Wynne. “She’s the best healer I know.”

Connor smiles, but his eyes flash, and Rhyanon swears she can see purple smoke curling through his irises. She bites her lip and reaches out to take Connor’s hand. The boy pulls away. Rhyanon glances to Irving, looking for help, but he simply gives her a steady look and waits for her to pull out a vial of lyrium and swallow it down. The other mages in her group follow suit. They sit down in a loose circle on the floor, and Rhyanon closes her eyes and reaches out for the Fade, pushing herself through the crack in the Veil. 

She is dreaming, but not dreaming. The Fade is familiar, though her hair stands up on the back of her neck as she knows she is searching for a demon. As during her Harrowing, voices from long-ago memories echo in her ears. She’s alone here. The power of the other mages she brought with her is needed to make sure she isn’t trapped in this place. 

“Where are you?!” she calls out. 

The demon laughs, a tinkling, musical sound, nothing like the harsh cackle Rhyanon would have expected. 

Rhyanon walks the twisted pathways in front of her, holding her breath the entire while. She’s spiraling downward, into a pit-like empty space where a purple-skinned, naked woman spins in lazy circles, like a dancer. 

“You have to let Connor go,” Rhyanon demands.

“Why? I have only come to give the boy what he wants.”

“He wants his father to be healthy, not clinging to life!” 

The demon shrugs, as if that is not her problem. 

“Connor’s just a little boy.” 

“Ah. And you believe you can offer me something better?”

“I don’t make deals with demons.”

“Are you sure?” Rhyanon gathers her power and calls a sword into being in her hand. She slices through the demon, but it only re-forms itself and pouts. “That was uncalled for. I only want to help.”

“Liar.”

“If you choose to make this a fight, you won’t win, little mageling.”

“Try me.”

The demon grins, and comes after Rhyanon with twisted claws. Rhyanon ducks out of the way, and throws a bolt of lightning at the demon. She calls flame to the blade of her sword and cuts at the demon’s leg, causing it to stumble. She follows that up with a cut at its neck. With each hit, it takes the demon longer to repair its form. Rhyanon is breathing heavily, but she knows that she can win this. 

“Leave him alone!” she snarls, as she burns the demon down to nothing but ash. 

In the aftermath of the battle, the Fade’s familiar whispers break the silence. 

Rhyanon opens her eyes. 

Irving is looking at her with a grin on his face, and Wynne looks relieved. “Did I do it?” Rhyanon asks. “Is Connor…?”

In answer, Wynne nods to the boy, who has run to his father’s bedside and is waiting with eager anticipation for the arl to wake up. 

Rhyanon frowns. “Wynne, can you…?” 

“My magic alone is not enough to help him,” she says sadly. 

“But you  _ promised _ ,” Connor cries. 

Isolde steps into the room, hand to her mouth, tears flowing. “Connor?” she asks carefully. The little boy runs to her. “Connor, is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me, Mother.”

Irving tells Isolde that the demon has been banished from her son’s body. “Oh, thank you!” she cries, wrapping Connor up in a hug.

“There is, of course, the matter of keeping him safe.”

“You want to take him from me.”

Connor looks from her to the group of mages surrounding him - the ones who saved his life.

“Please,” he begs. “I want to stay with the mages. I want to learn about my magic, how to use it, not just hide it, or be afraid of it.”

Isolde finally nods, resigned. She saw what was wrought of her attempts to keep the boy’s magic hidden. 

Rhyanon’s heart sinks. The cruel voice inside her head wants to tell this boy that there’s no hope of belonging in the Circle - there’s no hope of anything within the walls of Kinloch Hold. But he’s looking at her so desperately, and where else can he go? He’s only ten years old, and he is the only one she’s ever heard of who has survived being possessed by a demon. Is she supposed to just let him wander around in the outside world? That would be dangerous for both him and the world. She winces as she realizes how often those exact words had been used to justify the existence and abuses of the Circle. 

“What about Arl Eamon?” Alistair asks. “If magic doesn’t work to heal him. If… if the demon is no longer keeping him alive…”

“You must find the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” Isolde demands. “Andraste herself will have the power to heal him.”

“The Urn’s just a story,” Rhyanon protests. 

“It’s  _ real _ ,” Isolde insists. “There is a Chantry Brother in Denerim who has been searching for it. He will help you.”

Rhyanon glances at Alistair, who is already nodding. “Of course we’ll find it,” he promises. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Thank you,” Isolde says, smiling from behind her tears. “We will pray for you.”

Rhyanon just barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Instead, she takes Connor’s hand. This time, he lets her. She walks him out of the castle along with the rest of the Circle mages, and then passes him to Irving. 

“Take care of him,” she demands. “I swear to the Maker, if I find out he’s been hurt, if the templars touch him-“

Connor looks nervous, but it’s Rhyanon who Irving gathers up in a hug. She almost twists her way out of it - she is  _ not  _ a little girl anymore - but she ends up just standing there uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. 

“I’ll keep him safe,” Irving says, and Rhyanon knows he means it. She’d hated him, sometimes, for not stopping the abuses of the templars, for going along with Greagoir instead of taking their side. But she’d never blamed him. She knows what it’s like to shut things out, to close your eyes, because it’s easier than fighting. She knows that sometimes the best you can do isn’t good enough, and it isn’t his fault. 

Irving’s eyes are open now, and he will fight tooth and nail for his mages. He’s already started. 

“You can trust me, Rhyanon,” he says seriously. 

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stephen is an OC from Rhyanon's origin story, "Light Up The Sky."


	12. A House is Not a Home

Rhyanon can’t sleep. The nightmares are plenty familiar by now - Warden dreams and mage dreams both, and the voices of the demons are the only constant - but when she wakes up in her bedroll soaked with sweat and unable to catch her breath, she doesn’t want to stay there. 

She opens the flap of her tent to find a moonless, clouded sky. She shivers as she steps out in only a thin shirt and breeches. Her dog stirs and gives her a questioning look accompanied by a whine, then follows her out of the tent. She reaches down to scratch his head, glad for the warmth of his body pressed against hers. 

She’s not alone. Sten patrols at the edges of the camp, keeping watch. And sitting in front of the embers of their campfire is Alistair.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” he asks as she approaches.

She shakes her head, and sits down on a tree stump across from him. She calls her mana to the surface and sends a flame crackling over the wood at the center of their circle, reigniting the fire.

Alistair smiles. “I used to wonder what it would be like to be a mage.”

Rhyanon shrugs. _It’s not that great_ , she wants to say, but she has to admit there are moments when she loves it. 

“You have dreams, too, don’t you?” he asks. Nightmares.”

“Yeah.”

“The archdemon… talks... to the darkspawn. And we can hear it. That’s what the dreams are.”

“That’s how you know it’s a real Blight,” Rhyanon says softly. Alistair nods. 

“Some of the older Wardens said they could understand a bit of what it was saying, but I sure don’t.”

Rhyanon is used to vivid, violent dreams. They are part and parcel of being a mage. But what Alistair is describing makes her stomach twist all the same. 

“Can we use it to find the archdemon?” she asks. “If we knew where it was…”

Alistair shrugs. “Maybe that’s what we’re doing. Maybe we’re getting close and that’s why the dreams are getting stronger.”

“Or maybe it’s the archdemon that’s getting stronger,” Rhyanon sighs. They just don’t know enough about what it means to be Grey Wardens. 

“There’s a cheery thought,” Alistair mumbles. Rhyanon shrugs. No one has ever looked to her for cheery thoughts. “It’s not only the archdemon keeping you awake, is it? The Circle… I mean, that was your home…”

She shakes her head fiercely. “It was never my home. But still. I can’t… I knew those people, that place. It was… hard, to see it like that.” And she’s worried about what happens now. Irving seems to believe that the mages can rebuild, but Rhyanon can’t see how. 

Alistair is a templar. She hardly wants to talk with him straight-up about how afraid she is of her own corrupted magic. But he’s seen her cast blood spells, and he hasn’t tried to kill her yet. In fact, he’s done everything he can to keep her alive. _Why_? 

“It wasn’t any easier for you though, was it? You used to be a templar.”

Alistair sighs heavily. “I went to Kinloch Hold once, during my training. There was a girl, going through the Harrowing. She… failed. Succumbed to the demon. It was horrible. After that, I knew I couldn’t be a templar. I prayed to the Maker that I could be free from the monastery.”

Rhyanon had seen the abominations in the Tower, but now that she knows the Circle has the power to cure abominations, the thought of the templars cutting down those mages who struggle in their test sickens her all the more. If they could cure Connor, why not every mage who fails a Harrowing? They could do it. They just choose not to. 

She frowns, turning Alistair’s words over in her mind. “You didn’t like the monastery?” She’d never imagined that the templars might be unsatisfied with their lot in life. They were the ones with all the power, after all. 

“I hated it. Nothing but chores and the Chant, all day, every day. It was so quiet...” Rhyanon nods. The enforced silence of the Tower had scared her, when she was younger. Maybe it wasn’t so different for Alistair. “I used to stand in the middle of the sanctuary and just scream, just to hear something. Brought everyone running…” He flashes her a grin. “Good times.”

Rhyanon knows how her keepers at Kinloch Hold would have responded if she’d tried something like that. Somehow, she doesn’t think Alistair’s Chantry minders would have treated him any more kindly. She starts to sympathize with him a little bit more.

The dog nudges her hand, tilts his head back questioningly. Rhyanon nods, letting him know that Alistair counts as a friend. 

Alistair notices, and smiles. “Hey, Rhyanon,” he starts and she nods for him to continue. “Thanks. For listening.”

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. The dog barks once in agreement and then follows Rhyanon into her tent, where she manages to snatch a few hours of restful sleep, for the first time since leaving the Tower. 

Then they’re back on the Kingsroad, heading for Denerim. It seems everyone except Rhyanon and Morrigan have been to Ferelden’s capital. The Chasind apostate remains close to Rhyanon, asking careful questions about what they might expect. But Rhyanon can only guess at the answers. 

She thought she was prepared to enter the city, but when they arrive, the whole thing is totally overwhelming, from the size of the huge city gates to the sheer number of people buzzing around her like insects in a hive. It’s just so _loud_. 

“Do we have any idea where to look for this Brother Genitivi?” Alistair asks. 

Rhyanon shakes her head. “But Zevran’s good at finding people, right?”

The Antivan assassin grins. “I am good at many things,” he agrees cheerfully. 

“Maybe we should ask for help at the Chantry,” Leliana suggests. 

Rhyanon glares, not angry at the bard but not keen on the idea of asking the Chantry for help on anything. Still, Leliana’s advice is solid. The Chantry keeps track of its people. Though whether they’ll want to share information with someone like Rhyanon is a whole other question. 

“Why don’t you go ask them?” she tells Leliana and Alistair. “They’ll be more likely to help.” 

Alistair shakes his head. “They’re still looking for Grey Wardens, remember?” 

Rhyanon sighs, but she knows that Alistair is right. 

“I will go,” Leliana says. “Zevran can come with me.” 

The Antivan flashes a wicked smile that almost makes Rhyanon want to follow them just to see what he gets up to in a Chantry. He’ll certainly flirt with the Revered Mother, but she trusts him not to do anything to truly endanger the mission. 

Rhyanon takes the rest of the group to go and find an inn. Sten prefers to keep a camp outside the city, along with the dwarves, Bodahn and Sandal. Sometimes, Morrigan joins them. Once they’ve left, it leaves Rhyanon alone with Alistair. 

“I want to ask you something,” he says nervously. Rhyanon frowns and scratches at the back of his neck. She doesn’t quite meet his eye. 

“Sure. What’s up?”

“My sister lives here, in Denerim. Well, my half sister. Goldanna. I’ve never met her, and I’d like to.”

“Okay. It’s not like you have to ask me for permission.”

“I want you with me.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I trust you. I know you’ll do the right thing.” 

Rhyanon nods slowly. “Okay.”

Alistair breaks into a grin. “Thank you!”

“Sure.”

It’ll just be a quick trip anyway, barely even out of their way. 

Alistair leads Rhyanon to a crowded neighborhood in the market district. She recognizes where they are - she has been here in the Fade. This was Alistair’s dream. Her heart twists when she remembers how quickly that dream had turned to nightmare. It’s not that Rhyanon imagines that Alistair’s sister will turn into a demon, but she still can’t shake the certainty that something will go wrong. 

“Are you sure?” she asks Alistair softly, as they approach the small whitewashed house. 

“Yeah,” he says, but he sounds hesitant. 

A red-haired woman is hanging laundry on a line, with several kids underfoot. 

“Erm… hello,” Alistair attempts to greet her. 

Goldanna steps out from behind a wet blouse and looks him up and down. She narrows her eyes when she sees the shiny armor he’s wearing, and the woman standing behind him. “Who’re you?” she asks guardedly. The children grow quiet and watch Alistair and Rhyanon, wary. 

“I’m Alistair. I’m… well, I’m your brother. Half brother.”

Goldanna glares at him. “They told me you’d died. Kicked me right out of the castle. I was just a kid and they left me with nothing.”

“I’m… sorry.”

“Pfft. What good’s an apology? If you really want to help, maybe you can donate some gold to the cause. I’ve got five kids to feed.”

Alistair looks at the kids, who stare back at him with wide eyes. The youngest starts to whimper, and Goldanna picks her up with a heavy sigh. She raises an eyebrow. “Well? I don’t have all day to stand around. There’s work to do.”

“Come on, Alistair,” Rhyanon urges. “Let’s just go.” 

He nods, slowly. But he slips a few gold coins into his sister’s hand before he turns to follow Rhyanon. Goldanna doesn’t even say thank you. 

He walks with heavy footsteps, clearly unsettled. He keeps looking to Rhyanon as if she can offer him some sort of reassurance. But she can’t.

“Everybody’s out for themselves, Alistair,” she says bluntly. “You have to learn that.”

It sounds cruel, but she’s feeling a little bit cruel. It seems right that if she doesn’t get to have a family, Alistair shouldn’t either. After all, it was templars like him who tore her away from her own home. 

He looks wounded, and says nothing. 

Rhyanon almost apologizes, but no sound comes out when she opens her mouth to speak. Alistair gives her a quizzical glance, but she just sighs. “Come on,” she finally says. “Let’s go find Zevran and Leliana.”

They head toward the Chantry, but Leliana meets them when they’re still in the market, which reassures Rhyanon immensely. The bard takes one look at Alistair and frowns, but she doesn’t ask. 

“Where’s Zevran?” Rhyanon wants to know. 

“He went to, erm… investigate the brothel.”

“I don’t think he’ll find a Chantry Brother there,” Alistair says. He seems eager to have a new topic of conversation to latch onto. 

“You’d be surprised,” Rhyanon mutters. Leliana shares a knowing smirk. “I guess we’d better go after him, then.”

Alistair raises an eyebrow, and Rhyanon sighs. “You don’t have to come.”

He blushes, and shakes his head. “Never mind,” he sighs. 

Leliana leads the way to the Pearl, and somehow Rhyanon isn’t surprised that she knows where it is. She pushes the door open, and Rhyanon and Alistair follow. Rhyanon wasn’t sure what to expect from a brothel, but at first glance it looks no different from the inns she’s encountered in her travels. If anything, it’s a little more high end than what she’s experienced. 

A woman stands behind the bar with a baby on her hip. He babbles happily, but his mother just looks tired. “What can I get’cha?” 

Rhyanon glances at Alistair, who just shrugs. Leliana orders the three of them a pitcher of ale, and they sit down at a table near the door. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be looking for Zevran?” Rhyanon asks, as the bard pours her a cup.

“He’ll be along,” Leliana promises. 

She’s right. After about half an hour, Zevran appears. He jumps down the stairs two at a time with a huge grin on his face. “Ah, my Warden,” he says, upon seeing Rhyanon. “Are you sure you will not join me upstairs? It is an experience you will not forget, truly.”

Rhyanon shakes her head. She’s still hesitant when it comes to sex. She and Jowan had satisfied a need, but that was shortly before he asked for Tranquility and they both knew that if she’d had the choice, she would have been with Anders. It left her feeling nothing but a hollow ache. It certainly didn’t feel _good_. And sex in the Tower was like that for most people, she knew. How could it be anything other than empty and meaningless when they all knew that there was no such thing as love in the Circle Tower? She doesn't need more empty and meaningless distraction. She has things to do. 

Zevran pouts, but he meets her eyes and seems to understand. “Ah, well,” he sighs. 

Alistair seems glad to leave the brothel, and they are all looking forward to the inn, where they will be able to clean up and eat a real meal, sleep in a real bed. 

“Did you have any luck at the Chantry?” Rhyanon asks Leliana as they share a loaf of bread and two bowls of stew. 

“I know exactly where to find Brother Genitivi.”

That makes Rhyanon smile. It’s nice to have something go right. “We’ll go first thing in the morning,” she promises. 

That night, she climbs into a bed that feels large and luxurious after countless nights in a bedroll on the hard ground. Her dog curls up at her feet, warm and soft. His snoring lulls her to sleep. But she wakes up at dawn, a habit conditioned through a lifetime of being forced to attend Chantry services. It helped her on the road, got them going that much earlier. This morning, though, it seems an annoyance. The dog rolls over onto his back and refuses to move otherwise. Rhyanon lays in bed for a little while longer, but she feels guilty for not getting up and being productive. She only lasts a few minutes before she’s up and getting dressed, organizing her gear, and preparing for the day. 

The dog comes with her to Brother Genitivi’s small house near the Chantry. He barks and growls as they near the place. Alistair tries to hush him, but it’s no use. Rhyanon trusts her dog. “Be careful,” she warns. “There’s something wrong here.”

Alistair nods, but he puts himself in front of the group and walks up the garden path to knock at the door. “Hello!” he calls, when no one answers. “Is anyone there?” 

Still, no one responds, but Rhyanon can see a moving shadow on the other side of the curtained window. She calls up her mana, and nods toward Alistair. He kicks the door in, easily breaking its flimsy lock. When he and Rhyanon enter the front room, it’s to find a thin, nervous-looking man staring at them from behind a table. 

“Who are you?” he asks, with voice shaking slightly. His fingers are constantly moving, tapping out an unsteady rhythm on his leg or on the wooden surface in front of him. 

“We’re looking for Brother Genitivi,” Rhyanon says. “This is his house, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” stutters the man. “Ah. I’m Weylon, Ser Genitivi’s assistant. I too am searching for him.” 

Rhyanon frowns. “If you’re his assistant, shouldn’t you know where he is?” 

“He travels. Research, you know? The last I heard from him, he was at the Lake Calenhad Docks.”

Rhyanon tenses. If the Brother was at Lake Calenhad, might he have gotten caught up in what happened at the Circle? What if his was one of the several Chantry-clothed corpses she’d found, or the mind-controlled thralls she’d been forced to slay?

“What was he doing there?” she asks. She manages to keep her voice steady. 

Before Weylon can respond, Rhyanon’s dog bolts across the room and starts scratching and clawing at a locked door. 

“What’s back there?” Rhyanon asks calmly. 

Weylon flushes, and with the same nervous hands Rhyanon had noticed earlier, he pulls a sword from his hip. He holds it in a confident two-handed grip, all trace of the stuttering apprentice gone. 

Alistair moves forward to engage him in combat, while Rhyanon tries to open the door to the back room. Anders had taught her how to pick a lock, but that was a long time ago and she hasn’t had a ton of practice. Still, eventually the tumblers click, and she is able to push the door open. 

She spins around to help Alistair while the dog runs into the other room, snarling and barking. The clanging of sword against sword adds to the chaos. Rhyanon targets Weylon with a lightning spell, and the bolt of electricity shoots through his body, paralyzing him and allowing Alistair to get in the killing blow. 

“No way he was just a simple scholar,” Alistair says, breathing heavily. 

Rhyanon shakes her head. “No. The dog found the real Weylon. Look.”

The Chantry scholar’s body lays on the floor, already starting to decompose. The smell is revolting, and Rhyanon wonders how she hadn’t noticed when they first entered the house. Maybe there was a spell on the door, or something. A preservation spell of some kind, or a masking one. It doesn’t especially matter, and she doesn’t want to stay here any longer than she has to. 

“Look around,” she tells Alistair. “Maybe we can find some clue to tell us where the Brother has gone.”

She starts flipping through the papers on the messy desk, searching for anything that might be of use. 

“I found a map,” Alistair finally says, from the other side of the room. He shows it to her, and she frowns, recognizing few of the landmarks on it. 

“Is this even Ferelden?” 

Alistair shrugs. “I think so. Up in the mountains, though.” His fingers trace the triangle marks that represent those peaks. 

Rhyanon sighs. “Up in the mountains near Orzammar?” she asks hopefully. They really don’t have the time to go on a tour of the entire country. They’re supposed to be fighting the Blight. 

But Alistair shakes his head. He can see her disappointment and frustration. “But still, Rhyanon,” he pleads. “If this can help Arl Eamon…”

Rhyanon sighs heavily. She still believes that the Urn of Sacred Ashes is a myth. But Alistair is silently begging her, and Arl Eamon might be the only family he has left in the world. How can she callously rip that away from him, just because it’s a little inconvenient?

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go tell the others.”


	13. Testing a Theory

“When I was younger,” Wynne says. “I used to dream of exploring Ferelden.” 

It’s hard for Rhyanon to imagine Wynne as a young woman, her age. She’d probably curled up in the temple library reading Genitivi’s books, imagining far off places no mage would ever get to see. 

“How do you feel about it now?” Rhyanon asks. 

They are tromping through the mountain passes, freezing in the snow. Though Bodhan had been able to trade them some cold weather gear, it doesn’t change the fact that neither Rhyanon nor Wynne have ever experienced weather like this. It snowed at the Tower, of course, but they could only watch it through sneaked glances out the arrow slit windows. 

“I suppose it’s an adventure,” Wynne replies. “Though I do wish I had some hot tea.”

Rhyanon rolls her eyes, and continues trying to follow the map Alistair had found. “We can’t be that far from Haven.” Of course, with the blowing snow limiting visibility, they could probably be right on top of the village and not see it. Rhyanon pushes on. 

The rugged path they’re following grows narrower and harder to navigate as it dips into a valley nestled in the looming shadow of the mountains that surround it. Rhyanon can see small buildings that must be houses clumped within it. “This must be it,” she announces, around chattering teeth. Alistair rubs his hands together and stomps his feet, nodding. 

“Thank the Maker!” he exclaims. Leliana smiles and agrees with the sentiment. Sten seems not to notice the cold, and Morrigan doesn’t appear to be bothered. Rhyanon’s dog rolls around in the snow happily enough. But Rhyanon is looking forward to being warm and dry again, and she makes her way down into the village, quickening her pace as she gets closer. 

The village is eerily empty, though. It reminds her of Redcliffe, the night the walking dead had attacked. She has a bad feeling about this. The others notice, too. 

“I do not like this,” Leliana says softly. She draws her bow and nocks an arrow, alert for any sign of threat. But Rhyanon waves her off when all she sees is a child, standing in the middle of the road. He’s humming, mumbling words under his breath. Rhyanon can’t make them out. 

She approaches the young boy carefully, smiling. “Hello,” she calls out. 

The boy turns. He doesn’t return Rhyanon’s smile. Instead, he keeps his hands curled into fists, and his eyes flicker back toward the quiet village behind him. “Who’re you?” he asks guardedly, returning his gaze toward Rhyanon. 

“My name is Rhyanon Amell. I’m a Grey Warden.”

“What’s a Grey Warden?” 

“We fight darkspawn,” Alistair clarifies.

“Like monsters?” the boy asks.

Rhyanon nods. “Where is everyone?” 

The kid shakes his head. “My mama says you can’t trust lowlanders.”

Alistair shoots Rhyanon a glance. Leliana clears her throat softly. 

“You can trust us,” she says, with her soft Orlesian lilt. 

But the boy shakes his head again. “I remember some lowlanders like you. They left. I think. I never saw them again.”

Once again, a wave of uneasiness washes over Rhyanon, but she tries to keep it in check. There is no sense in scaring a child. Or indicating that in fact the child is scaring her. 

“We’re not going to hurt anybody,” she says. “We’re just going to look around.”

“Mama won’t like that.”

“Will you get in trouble?” Alistair wants to know. The little boy shrugs, and returns to humming his creepy little rhyme. 

Rhyanon tugs on Alistair’s arm. “Come on,” she says softly. “Let’s just go.”

She is tense and alert, and happy to send the dog running ahead of her after he’d warned them of trouble back in Denerim. This village is giving off all too similar vibes. 

“Look,” Leliana points out. “There is a store.”

“And a Chantry,” Alistair notices. The large stone building doesn’t look like any Chantry Rhyanon has ever seen, though. There’s no flaring sun or fiery swords, no templars standing guard and no Chanters preaching their verses on the nearby streets. Still, if anyone knows what’s going on in any town of any size, it’s the Chantry people. Rhyanon nods to Alistair and follows him up the winding path toward the house of worship. 

She expects the doors to be open - she has never encountered a Chantry with locked doors except for the night in Redcliffe when the villagers had barricaded their women and children in the building for protection. But the doors of Haven’s Chantry are locked tight. A quick test proves she won’t be able to just pick the lock, either. The doors are barred from the inside. Rhyanon frowns. 

“They’re hiding something in there,” she says, certain. 

“There will be another entrance,” Leliana replies calmly. “For the clergy and initiates. Come.” She leads them around the sturdy building, eventually finding a well concealed door in the back corner. The bard easily picks the lock, and nods to Rhyanon, indicating she should go first. 

Rhyanon leads Leliana and Alistair into the Chantry, with the dog staying close by her side, alert and on the hunt. He snarls as they approach the brick wall opposite the door through which they had entered. Upon close inspection, Rhyanon can see that a section of the bricks are a different color than those around it. “It’s a false wall,” she murmurs. 

“There has to be a way to open it,” Alistair insists. 

“What are you doing here?” asks a deep male voice. Rhyanon whirls around, to see an older man in robes reminiscent of the pink robes of a Chantry priest, though his are a deeper red. 

“Who are you?” she asks, countering a question with a question. 

“Our village is peaceful. We don’t need outsiders like you coming in to ruin it!”

“What’s behind that door?” Rhyanon asks calmly. 

The man’s eyes flash with anger as though she’d made a threat, and he produces a pair of wicked looking knives from under his robes. Leliana closes in with a couple of daggers of her own, and Alistair draws his sword. Rhyanon hangs back, targeting the maybe-priest with precision jolts of lightning or ice when she can do so without catching her companions in the crossfire. She isn’t sure who strikes the killing blow, but after a brief, intense fight, the three of them overpower their opponent. 

Rhyanon takes the coin-like medallion from his pocket and uses it to key open the secret door. 

There is a bald man in brown robes, handcuffed and chained to the wall in an unfurnished room. “Brother Genitivi?” Rhyanon guesses. His brow wrinkles in confusion, but he nods. “Are you alright?” She helps him to his feet and then urges Leliana to undo the chains holding him. 

Genitivi stretches and rubs at his wrists, nodding. “They didn’t hurt me,” he assures them. “I could do with a bit of food, though. If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

Alistair reaches into his bag and pulls out some cheese and hard bread, handing them to the Brother. 

“Thank you,” Genitivi says. He turns back to Rhyanon. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what are you doing here?” 

Rhyanon doesn’t even know where to start. It’s such a long story. “We’re looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. We know you came here to find it.”

“What is your interest in the Urn?”

“We need it to heal Arl Eamon,” Alistair pipes up. “The Arl of Redcliffe. He’s deathly ill, and we need his help.”

“Ah. So you believe in the power of Andraste’s ashes, then.”

Rhyanon looks at Alistair. He nods, slowly. “I owe Arl Eamon a great deal. I have to help him.”

“You did find the Urn?” Leliana asks. “Didn’t you?” 

Brother Genitivi nods. “I did. Or, well, I believe I have found its resting place. There is a temple not far from here, hidden in the mountains. I will take you there.”

Alistair grins, and Rhyanon can’t help but smile. “Thank you, Ser.”

Leliana worries about bringing a scholar along with them on such a dangerous journey, but Rhyanon figures that if Genitivi had discovered the Urn in the first place, he certainly deserves to come along. And anyway, she soon finds out that there’s no way she could’ve found the hidden temple without him. The paths seem to exist for his eyes alone. Rhyanon would have walked right past them a dozen times. Even looking, following in Genitivi’s footsteps, she doesn’t see any obvious markers.

It seems very sudden when the temple appears, seemingly forming itself out of the mountains around them. It’s an ancient ruin, one that reminds her a bit of the one in the Brecilian Forest. There are collapsing columns and crumbling stone steps, and a blanket of snow covers the whole structure. 

“Be careful,” Genitivi warns. “Watch for ice.”

Rhyanon nods, though she doubts it’s only ice they’ll have to worry about. The entrance to the temple is hushed, calm. Brother Genitivi pulls out a stack of parchment along with charcoal, pen, and inks. “I will stay here,” he declares. “There is much to learn.” 

Rhyanon doesn’t see much, but she trusts the scholar, and anyway if he stays up here, she won’t have to protect him in the bowels of the temple. “Do you know which way I should go?” 

Genitivi shakes his head. “Stay focused on the goal,” is all the advice he offers. “Let Andraste guide you.”

Rhyanon scowls. She’d rather have some kind of map than a nebulous belief in Andraste, but Leliana and Alistair seem to believe that the Maker and His Bride really will protect them in here. 

“Stay safe,” Rhyanon tells Genitivi. She leaves her dog with him as the closest thing to a bodyguard she can offer, and then she waves Alistair and Leliana forward. 

“Stay focused on the goal,” Rhyanon mumbles, as she ignores the seemingly endless hallways to their left and right. There is a set of stairs directly below them, which remains locked no matter what she tries. In the Tower, Anders had shown her a rod of fire that could be used to melt locks. She knows it’s how he’d managed at least one of his escapes. She uses the same principle here, carefully manipulating a stream of tightly woven flame to gradually increase the temperature of the lock, until there is nothing left but melted slag. With the lock out of the way, it’s easy enough to push open the heavy door. 

Beyond the door lies a main hall, like the one in Redcliffe Castle or even Kinloch Hold. The wide open space makes Rhyanon nervous; they’re so exposed out here. A few men and women in dark robes accented with blood red trim step out from the shadows. One of them is a mage, Rhyanon can feel it. 

“You are not welcome here!” one of the men snarls. The same words she’d heard from the so-called priest in Haven. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I’m getting that feeling.” 

“We will protect Our Lady.” 

From across the room, the mage attempts to cast a fireball. Rhyanon manages to put up a barrier over herself and her companions just in time, and the heat of it washes over them, making Rhyanon sweat. “Fine,” she growls. “Two can play that game.” 

Unfortunately, the cultists have spread themselves out so that she cannot easily hit more than one of them. They’re smarter than she’d have initially given them credit for. Leliana pulls out her bow and starts dumping arrow after arrow into their attackers, aiming for the mage first. Rhyanon smiles grimly, and calls lightning into her hand. Alistair clashes with the man who had spoken - their leader? - the clatter of sword on sword ringing through the air. 

This may be the cultists’ home ground, but Rhyanon and her team have become experts at working together in a fight. They do not easily overpower the men and women surrounding them, but they do slowly and steadily draw the fight to a standstill.

“Last chance,” Rhyanon warns. “Let us pass, and you may escape with your lives.”

Alistair had already killed the leader, and the mage is down, but the two other cultists, both women, trade a glance. 

“It doesn’t matter if you kill us,” one spits. “Our Lady will judge you, as she judges us all.”

Rhyanon heaves a heavy sigh. She has had her fill of religious fanatics. Leliana fires dispassionately, her arrows burrowing into the chests of the two remaining cultists. “Come on,” she says. “We have to find the urn.”

They push their way into the next room, which is empty of human challengers but is full of traps. Leliana and Rhyanon carefully work to disentangle them, but only Leliana has the tools to make much headway, and Rhyanon eventually has to concede the effort to her. “Follow me,” the bard says, as they continue into the room. “Very carefully. Watch my footsteps.”

Rhyanon and Alistair carefully do as they are told. The room ends at a branching hallway, little more than a tunnel carved into the rock. “East or west?” Leliana asks Rhyanon. 

“East,” Rhyanon says. Toward the rising sun. It seems like the right answer in a place so steeped in Chantry lore. 

They are barely into the tunnel before they are surrounded by monstrous creatures with fierce claws and teeth, large enough to bowl them over and attack with their prey helpless on the ground. 

“Are those dragons?” Alistair asks, as he hacks at one with a sword. 

“Baby ones,” Leliana confirms. She has swapped her bow for her daggers and is going in close and bloody. 

Unlike the cultists, these dragons swarm, setting up easy groups for Rhyanon to wipe out with fire and ice. They scream as they die, a terrible sound that makes Rhyanon flinch. It’s worse when it’s Alistair she hears screaming. She calls his name, but all she can see is his body trapped under one of the dragonlings. She can’t risk using a spell that might hit him, so she grabs her sword and hacks at the dragonling, blindly, drawing blood with every swing of her weapon. Eventually, the dragonling moans and dies, and Rhyanon shoves it off of Alistair before dropping to her knees beside him. He moans from behind pale skin and glassy eyes. She pulls out a vial of blue liquid and swallows its contents. Alistair winces.

“What?” 

“I just wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, very softly.  _ Do what?  _ she thinks, and then she looks down at the empty tube of glass in her hand.

“You think I should use blood instead?” she asks seriously. She’s used lyrium in front of Alistair before. But maybe it’s different now. She can’t think why, though.

Rhyanon has never had easy access to lyrium, but Irving had supplied her with some before he left for the Tower with Connor. It allows her to do things that have never been possible without resorting to blood as fuel: things like healing Alistair’s dragon-mauled leg. 

Alistair shakes his head, still obviously in great pain. “Lyrium doesn’t make templar powers work,” he gasps out. “It just makes templar powers work  _ better _ . At least that’s what they told me.”

Rhyanon frowns, momentarily distracted from casting the spell that will help her fellow Grey Warden. “What’re you talking about?” 

“You know what lyrium does to people who aren’t mages, right? You’ve seen it in Denerim, yeah?” Rhyanon shakes her head. She doesn’t know much about the drug now flooding her system, except that it is a source of mana, dangerous in large doses but relatively benign. But it’s obvious that Alistair sees something else when he looks at it. 

“Rhyanon, it makes people crazy.  They lose their memories, their ability to reason...  _ everything _ except the need for more of the stuff in those vials you carry around so easily. And the Chantry… they force it on their templars, a little at a time, a little more every day... you don't know you're addicted until it's too late to break away. And since  _ they _ control the lyrium trade with the dwarves... I'm sure you can put two and two together.”

Rhyanon sits back, stunned by what she’s hearing. “ I thought it was only mages they knew how to control,” she whispers. She stuffs the vial down to the bottom of her pack, as though that can make him forget about its existence. “If you want, I’ll stop using it.”

She knows how to ration her mana, even in emergencies. The Circle spent a decade making sure she knows how. 

Alistair looks at her, sweaty and feverish. “No,” he says simply. “If it helps you…”

Rhyanon nods, but she already knows she’ll never use it again in front of him. “Come on,” she says soothingly. “Let me fix you up.”

The blue glow light of the healing spell wraps itself around Alistair’s still-bleeding leg. He whines as the cold shock of the spell freezes his skin, but the cold numbs the pain, and his breathing eases. Rhyanon stitches his flesh closed, and when she pulls her hands away, sticky blood still paints his skin, but there is no sign of the wound. 

“Thank you,” Alistair mumbles, the exhaustion that is the aftermath of healing now fully overtaking him. Rhyanon holds him close, supporting him in a sitting position. She brushes a hand through his sweaty hair, and traces a bead of that sweat with her thumb as it trickles down his cheek. Her thumb moves over to his lips, and then she leans down to plant a gentle kiss to that spot. 

Alistair’s eyes fly open. “What are you doing, Rhyanon?”

“Testing a theory,” she replies. “Do you want me to stop?” 

He holds his breath for a long moment, but then he shakes his head. “No. Don’t stop.” 


	14. Trials of Faith

Alistair and Rhyanon quickly break apart at the sound of a dragon’s roar coming from further down the tunnel. Leliana is giving them an approving smile, causing Alistair to blush and Rhyanon to pretend like nothing had happened. She gets to her feet and continues along the narrow, winding path, falling into step behind Leliana, who holds her bow ready and is alert for traps. 

The path grows steep, going up now, rather than down. They walk for what feels like hours. “Look,” Leliana finally says, pointing ahead. Bright sunlight streams in, and a freezing wind blows. Rhyanon wraps her heavy cloak more tightly around herself and blinks into the sun. When they push their way outside, it’s clear they’ve reached the top of the mountain. 

“It’s beautiful,” Alistair whispers, taking in the view. Rhyanon nods, but the dragon’s roar they’d heard earlier rings through the peaks, louder than ever. She resists the urge to duck as a shadow passes overhead. She’d never imagined that she would see a real dragon. This one, though, does not seem friendly. 

“She will protect her territory,” Leliana confirms. 

“Then let’s get out of her territory,” Rhyanon insists. She pushes her way forward, to a smaller ruin waiting for them on the top of the mountain. This must be where Andraste’s ashes can be found. She can feel it. She doesn’t believe in the Maker, not really, but there is something sacred here nevertheless. 

Compared to the sprawling temple that they had forged their way through to get here, this place seems small, only a few tightly packed rooms. One man, cloaked in armor and with face hidden by a helmet, steps forward to greet them. “I know who you are, Rhyanon Amell,” he says, voice gravelly and heavy with age. “I know why you have come.”

“I seek the Urn of Andraste,” Rhyanon confirms. Behind her, Alistair and Leliana shift uncomfortably, yet they hold their weapons close and she knows they have her back. 

“What makes you think you are worthy of the Sacred Ashes?” 

Rhyanon thinks several things at the same time. The answers wrestle for dominance in her mind. But she blurts out the first thing that came into her head, a response that is certainly true, though risky: “I’m not,” she says. 

The Guardian visibly relaxes. “You stand here, tainted by blood magic, a non-believer, an apostate. What you say is true. You are not worthy.”

“It’s not for me,” Rhyanon presses. “I need the ashes to save someone’s life. To stop the Blight.”

She can feel the Guardian’s stare boring into her from behind his helmet. She knows that he is very old, that he has experienced lifetimes. She feels like an inexperienced child by comparison. But this is _important_. She clings to that. 

“There is a test,” the Guardian replies calmly. “A test of faith.”

Rhyanon’s heart sinks. Maybe Alistair or Leliana can take the test, instead of her. They could get through. But somehow she knows that this isn’t the kind of test you walk away from. If she refuses, if she fails, the Guardian will strike her down. He guards Andraste and her faithful like a templar. Maybe that’s what he was, once upon a time. 

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Rhyanon says, softly but firmly. “I have to try.”

The Guardian nods. “Very well.”

He moves aside to allow Rhyanon and her companions access to the interior of the temple. Under his relentless gaze, they walk through a narrow door into a surprisingly large room. Ghostly apparitions cling close to the walls. Spirits. Not the demons of the Fade that Rhyanon is used to fighting, but simply ancient ghosts, tied to this place for centuries, guarding it, keeping it from harm. Rhyanon isn’t afraid of them, although maybe she should be. 

As she gets closer, she feels their feelings, overtaking hers, so strong she can’t fight against them and can only ride them: sorrow, jealousy, pain, and rage. She desires vengeance, she desires hope, and home, and dreams. Most of all, she desires _understanding_. They only want to tell their story: Andraste’s story. 

Rhyanon thought she knew Andraste’s story, could tell it in her sleep. But it takes on new life now, as she walks the path, feels it as intensely as if she were there when it happened. These spirits are ancient, yet to them, Andraste’s life and death are close things, not memories or fairy tales, but real truths that have only just occurred, and are occurring. 

“I know what you want,” she whispers, as the spirits circle closer. They ask her questions, riddles. None of them speak plainly, but nothing from the other side of the Veil ever does. 

“Rhyanon…” Alistair warns, as she steps closer to the first spirit, unarmed. She shakes her head, shakes him off. 

“They won’t hurt me,” she tells him. This will only be a fight if she makes it one. Andraste’s chosen do not hunger for blood. 

When she has spoken with each of the spirits in turn, assured them that she does not seek to harm the woman they love most in the world, each of them for a different reason, a door at the far end of the room slides open. Rhyanon hadn’t even realized it was there. 

She walks through the door, vaguely aware of Alistair and Leliana following her. She’s grateful for their presence, even as she knows she would follow this trial to its end with or without them. 

This room is a maze, with a central bridge forming itself out of nothing and then disappearing the moment Rhyanon tries to set her foot on it. She nearly falls the first time, and only Alistair pulling her back to solid ground saves her. “There has to be a way around,” he says, thinking aloud. Rhyanon nods. There are pathways to the left and right of the bridge, although from what she can see, none of them go all the way across the room, and the pit below them doesn’t appear to have a bottom. 

She takes a breath and starts to walk the eastern path, and the floor lights up beneath her once she’s gone three steps. She stops, and watches the bridge begin to form. “Alistair,” she calls. “Go along the other path.”

He does, and when he has just passed opposite her, the floor lights up under his feet and another section of the bridge locks in. Rhyanon smiles. “Leliana, start walking across the bridge.”

The bard looks uncertain, but she trusts in Rhyanon, and this test might be just as much about trust as it is about religious belief. Alistair and Rhyanon carefully move along their respective pathways, exchanging turns and building more of the bridge for Leliana to cross. The bard finally makes it to the platform in front of the next narrow door. The bridge holds, solid and strong, for Rhyanon and Alistair to cross. Leliana grins, and Rhyanon smiles too, feeling a little more confident. 

The next room is small, empty except for a wall of fire. Rhyanon can see the Urn through the flickering flames. She isn’t afraid of fire, she has had command of flames since she was six years old. But she knows how easy it is to lose control of a flame once it is released from her hand. A memory clings to her, so real it’s like she’s actually there again, a little girl choking in the smoke from a just-drenched fire, shivering and soaked from the splash of the bucket her tutor had thrown. It was that first accidental casting that revealed what she was, set her path in motion. There’s no changing that moment, no changing everything that she has become because of it. 

This is a place of memory, of riddles and challenges. Another whispers in her ears: _Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit…_

Cast off the trappings of worldly life…

Rhyanon begins fumbling with the clasps of her armor. She sets down her weapons. She strips off her clothes. She stands naked, shivering despite the heat of the flames in front of her. She should be embarrassed, humiliated even, but she takes a careful step forward, striding into the fire. The wall is still there, but she doesn’t feel it. It could be an illusion, cast by a powerful mage, but illusions have faults, cracks. A prepared mage can always see through them. The fire here is just as real as the fire she’d created in the library of a Kirkwall manor as a child. 

She continues forward. The Urn that rests upon a simple stone pedestal doesn’t look like much. It is made of hardened clay, and it seems to call to her as she steps closer, slowly, reverently. It’s Alistair who approaches first, but he stops to drape her cloak over her shoulders. Rhyanon nods her thanks. 

Alistair touches the Urn, but Rhyanon is the first to look inside. A clump of ordinary ashes half fills the container. Leliana falls to her knees and begins uttering pieces of the Chant. Alistair looks tempted to do the same, but instead he stands in Rhyanon’s shadow, waiting with held breath. He doesn’t speak. He reaches out for the Urn, and Rhyanon shifts to let him see and touch it.

“I thought you hated the Chantry,” she whispers. He has said it, often enough, when telling her about the templar training he’d been forced into. 

“I did,” Alistair says. “I _do_. But…” He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the urn in front of them. “I never said I hated the Maker.”

“The Maker doesn’t exist,” Rhyanon spits. “Even the Chantry says that.” 

Alistair sighs. He understands why Rhyanon can’t believe in the Chantry’s teachings, and she’s _right_ , he shouldn’t cling to them either. But standing here in front of this miracle, how can she not believe, at least a little bit? 

“The Maker’s not here, that’s what the Chantry says,” Alistair reminds her. “He can still hear you. And watch over you.”

Rhyanon pointedly doesn’t look at him, but the only thing there is to look at here is the Urn. Such a simple thing, but filled with so much power, at least for those who believe in it. 

“Are you crying?” Alistair whispers. He swears he can see tears in her eyes. But Rhyanon shakes her head immediately. “What are you doing?”

“Praying.” 

_Praying_. 

Alistair knows what she means, remembers doing the same thing, alone and afraid in the silence of the monastery, with the cuts of the cane still searing through his skin with every movement. 

This isn’t praying in some chapel, on bended knee, long words memorized under the glare of cruel teachers. None of that was real, but this is. This is something primal, like a child’s desperate whispers in the night. 

Alistair and Rhyanon both understand what prayer really is, and even if Rhyanon swears she’s lost her ability to believe that anyone can hear her, she reverts to those child’s whispers in the awesome power of this place of pilgrimage. 

Because it _worked_ , that’s the thing. When they asked for help, in voices no one else heard or listened for, they got what they needed. 

They got what they needed here, again, and Rhyanon feels a faith stirring within her that she’d thought was long dead. 

She takes a pinch of the ashes and reverently places it in a small leather pouch that she ties to her belt. Behind her, the Guardian, who has taken off his helmet, smiles. “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy.”

“Thank you,” Rhyanon says, bowing before the protector. He bows in return, and opens the door leading back to the mountain and the ruined temple where they had left Brother Genitivi. 

“You found the Urn!” he exclaims, before Rhyanon has said a word. Behind her, Alistair nods. “I must share this news with the Chantry!”

“You shouldn’t,” Rhyanon starts, afraid that the Chantry will corrupt this place as it has corrupted so much else, but the Brother will not be dissuaded. 

“You can’t,” Alistair tries. “If too many pilgrims come here, there will be nothing left.”

“Surely you are not suggesting we keep Andraste’s final resting place hidden from the faithful?”

Rhyanon looks uncomfortable. That’s exactly what they’re suggesting, but when Brother Genitivi suggests that only killing him will prevent him from preaching the news of what he’s found to all who will listen, she relents. This is a Chantry problem, not her problem. She only needed the ashes to heal Arl Eamon, and she has them now. And she will never speak to anyone of her experiences on this mountain. Like the Harrowing, and the Joining, it is a secret for herself alone. Even Leliana and Alistair, though they were there alongside her, do not know everything she saw and heard, and she doesn’t want them to. 

She tries again to warn Brother Genitivi, but he doesn’t hear her, and she will not attack him. To kill an innocent man would defile her, undo every trial she’d just gone through. She may be a maleficar and an apostate and a heretic, but she is no murderer. When Genitivi expresses his desire to go home, she willingly accepts his presence in the party until they reach the Kingsroad, where he can find another caravan to take him back to Denerim. 

Rhyanon and her companions make for Redcliffe, with Leliana and Alistair praying that Arl Eamon yet lives, and that Andraste’s ashes will prove as miraculous as the stories claim. Rhyanon, sitting with them at the campfire, joins in the prayers, though she still will not admit aloud that she believes in their power. 

A few of Eamon’s knights meet them at the main crossroads of Redcliffe Village, and lead them up to the castle. “His breath still fogs a mirror,” one of them says, when Rhyanon tentatively inquires about Arl Eamon’s health. “Beyond that...” he shakes his head. “His wife and son await a miracle. The people have prayed unceasingly since you left on your quest.” 

Teagan opens the gate of the castle, undisguised hope in his eyes. Rhyanon can only nod when he asks about the ashes. When she slips into Eamon’s room, where Isolde kneels beside the bedside, holding Eamon’s hand, everything is hushed, almost sacramental. Teagan takes the ashes from Rhyanon’s hand, and begins to anoint his brother. “For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light,” he whispers. “And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Rhyanon stays silent, but she bows her head and wishes, hopes with every breath, that the power of the ashes was not locked within the temple where she found them. 

And then, the arl’s eyes flutter open.


	15. Beautiful

The first person he sees is his wife. Isolde gasps, and then grins. She wraps Eamon in a hug with tears in her eyes. “Mon amour,” she says softly, over and over. Eamon kisses her, and it’s full of such intense love that Rhyanon looks away, unwilling to intrude on something so private. But then Eamon pulls away from Isolde, and the next person his gaze lands on is “Alistair?” 

“Erm… yes?”

“Alistair, it really is you! But what are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” Alistair says. He shoots a glance at Rhyanon. It feels terrible to be asking for help from a man who has been on his deathbed for months. But Arl Eamon pulls himself up to a sitting position and nods. He is weak and exhausted, but his mind is surprisingly sharp. 

“Tell me what you need.”

Alistair starts talking and it all spills out: the fact that he and Rhyanon are the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, that Loghain is hunting them, that King Cailan and most of his army were left to die at Ostagar. Eamon sits in silence and listens the entire while. His frown grows more pronounced the longer Alistair keeps talking, and his brow furrows with intense concern. 

“My men alone are not enough to stop a Blight,” he says sadly.

Rhyanon shakes her head. “They won’t be alone. We have treaties. We have help. The Dalish and the Circle have already pledged their support, and we are going to Orzammar to speak to the dwarves.”

Eamon nods, slowly. “That could work,” he agrees thoughtfully. “I have sworn an oath to protect Ferelden,” he adds. “Of course I will lend my aid to your cause.”

Rhyanon sighs with relief, and Alistair smiles. “I knew you would. Thank you!” 

Eamon nods again and then asks to speak to Alistair alone. Rhyanon leaves the room, joining up with Zevran, Leliana, and Morrigan in the courtyard. The dog runs around happily, chasing squirrels and birds. Alistair exits the castle a quarter of an hour later, looking none too happy. Rhyanon frowns a question at him, but he doesn’t give her an answer. 

They head into the village to stock up on the supplies they’ll need for the trip to Orzammar. Bodahn keeps his word, leading their group to the dwarven stronghold. It will take many days to get there, though, time for the darkspawn horde to grow, time for the dreams to get worse and worse. Time they don’t have. 

“Rhyanon.” Alistair’s voice cuts into her racing thoughts, the oppressive weight of worry that pulls heavy on her heart. She glances up. “Are we going to talk about…” He trails off, but Rhyanon sighs, already knowing what this is about.

“Yes?” she prompts. 

“Your… theory?” 

Her theory. Her theory that she has feelings for him. Her theory that he may return them. 

She nods, slowly. She doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t know how to, really. But she owes it to Alistair to try.

She takes a heavy breath, and, without looking at him, starts trying to explain. “In the Circle, mages didn’t… if you were smart, you didn’t have feelings for anyone. It gave the templars too much power if there was something you couldn’t stand to lose.”

_ There’s no such thing as love in the Circle Tower. _

She can’t remember who first said the words to her. Maybe it was Anders. But the truth of them had been instilled since the templars first took her from her home in Kirkwall. There were rules and punishments, orders and threats. Sometimes there were kindnesses, like Wynne healing the deep cut left behind when Knight Commander drew blood to make her phylactery, or Irving bringing her a hot meal, her first in weeks. There were mentors, agemates, allies. When they all got older, there were quick trysts in closets and corners. But there was never, ever love. There couldn’t be. 

Alistair frowns. “I’m… sorry,” is what he finally says. 

Rhyanon shrugs. “It’s not your fault.” And she realizes as she says it that she really does mean it, that when she talks about the templars she is talking about something separate from Alistair. He’d told her when they first met, when she had her hand wrapped tight around his throat, that he wasn’t a mage hunter. It only took her this long to figure out that what he’d said was true. 

Alistair reaches out and brushes his thumb over Rhyanon’s cheek. He leans down, his mouth just inches from hers. “Can I… test the theory?” he breathes. Rhyanon nods. 

Alistair’s lips are warm and soft, and the kiss lingers, gentle on her skin, for several long seconds. Alistair pulls away, breathing slowly and steadily. “What do you think?” he finally asks her. 

In answer, Rhyanon initiates another kiss, and this time she increases the pressure. When Alistair opens his mouth to catch a breath, she slips her tongue inside. He moans and matches her moves, and when they finally break apart, they are both flushed and smiling. 

Rhyanon can’t remember ever feeling happy like this. She grabs for Alistair’s hand, and laces her fingers in between his. “Thank you,” she says. For this. For everything. 

Alistair squeezes her hand and then reaches into his pack with his free hand. He pulls out a slightly battered flower, a blood-red rose, dried and crumbling to the touch, but still whole. He pushes it into Rhyanon’s hand. Her brow furrows in confusion, and she looks up at Alistair with a question clearly written on her face. 

“I found it in Lothering,” he tries to explain. And I just thought… I thought it was beautiful. This one beautiful thing surrounded by all this despair. And I couldn’t let the darkspawn destroy it.”

“Lothering,” Rhyanon repeats. “You’ve had it all this time?” 

He nods. “It reminds me of you. Maker,” he sighs. “I sound like an idiot. Let me start over-”

“Alistair,” Rhyanon interrupts. “Thank you,” she repeats. 

“Erm… I… you’re welcome.”

Rhyanon holds the rose in her hand, letting her thumb hover carefully over the thorns. If she pressed down, a drop of blood would well up on her skin. He’s wrong, she thinks. She’s not beautiful. She’s damaged, cut up by all the broken-glass feelings she keeps trapped inside. She fights for the survival of the world not because she’s some great hero, but because it’s the only way for her to survive. 

“I’m a blood mage,” she reminds Alistair. “ _ Maleficar _ . A monster.” 

“You’re not a monster.” 

Rhyanon wants to protest, but the gentle force of Alistair’s words keeps her quiet.

“I’ve watched you, Rhyanon. You risked your own life to save Connor. Going into the Fade like that… And you found a way to end the werewolves’ curse in the Brecilian Forest. You rescued Sten from a slow execution. You even helped the dog, when you didn’t have to. You give of yourself without any thought for reward or recognition. A monster wouldn’t do that.”

Rhyanon takes a shuddering breath. Alistair’s words fall over her like a comforting blanket. He doesn’t hate her. Even after watching her scratch deep trails of blood with her own fingernails to cast a spell in the Tower when she couldn’t access mana any other way, he isn’t repulsed by her. 

Alistair hugs her close, and she lets him, and all the tears she hasn’t allowed herself to cry since her disastrous Harrowing are falling now. Alistair doesn’t threaten her or try to make her stop crying. He just holds her. Rhyanon can’t remember anyone ever treating her with such compassion. 

“Are you alright?” he asks her quietly, after several long minutes. 

Rhyanon nods. “Yeah, I’m… Maker, I’m sorry. I never meant to fall apart in front of-”

“Rhyanon. It’s okay. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to be human. I’m glad you are.”

She allows a small smile, and Alistair grins back. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “Alistair, I’m really glad you’re here.”

Rhyanon and Alistair linger close to one another for the entire trip to Orzammar. Rhyanon catches Wynne smiling approvingly in their direction as they hold hands while approaching the mountain pass. She approaches the older mage as they set camp in the shadow of the great peaks looming close by. Bodahn says that they will reach the entrance to the dwarven city the next day. 

“It’s good to see you happy,” Wynne says without preamble. 

Rhyanon nods, though uncertainty still twists her stomach into knots. “I thought you’d be…” she trails off, uncertain of the word she wants. Angry? Disappointed? “I mean, it’s against all the rules, isn’t it?” 

“For a mage to fall in love?” Wynne attempts to clarify, and Rhyanon nods. “To fall in love with a templar, especially.” 

“Alistair’s not-”

“I know. And even if he were, you are free of the Circle now. Their rules no longer apply to you.” 

Rhyanon snorts. “You make it sound easy.”

Wynne shakes her head. “Not easy. But some rules are worth breaking.”

She says it in such a way that Rhyanon is suddenly aware that she’s broken rules too. And not small ones.  _ Wynne _ , who had always warned Rhyanon that her actions had consequences, who always presented herself as the role model all the younger mages should aspire to follow. 

“You had… this?” Rhyanon asks softly. “A relationship? Love? In the Tower?”

“I thought it was love,” Wynne says wistfully. “But I was very young at the time.”

“What happened?” Rhyanon asks.

“I got pregnant. The baby was taken from me. I never saw him again.”

Rhyanon’s already anxious body tenses, and a wave of guilt washes over her. Guilt, and anger at the Chantry people and their rules, the way they so easily rip families apart. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. 

“It was a long time ago.”

“So what?! Aren’t you mad at them? Why don’t you do something?!” 

“Something like what, Rhyanon?”

“I don’t know.  _ Something _ .”

“I take care of you all. My students. And I pray for my son. It is all that I can do.”

“How can you still believe in the Chantry after what they did to you?”

“Nobody did anything to me, Rhyanon. I always knew the risk I took.”

“And you did it anyway?”

Wynne sighs. “I thought it was love at the time,” she repeats. “Sometimes I think so, still.”

“I’ll be careful,” Rhyanon promises. She doesn’t need Wynne’s approval, but she strives for it all the same. She has always been intensely concerned with how other people perceive her, afraid to break the rules. Irving and Wynne were the two adults she worked to please the most, the closest thing to parents she had in the Circle. 

“You needn’t worry, I think. Your mistakes are not my mistakes. The path you walk is very different. And I am glad that you have found someone to walk alongside the path with you.”

Rhyanon doesn’t know what to say, but she smiles, and brings Wynne a cup of tea later that evening. The two of them sip in companionable silence, while Alistair keeps watch alongside the dog. 

The next morning dawns bright and clear. Bodahn leads them through the gauntlet of merchants and surface dwarves, like him, who are no longer welcome in the underground city but, unlike him, cannot bear to venture too far away from their original home. 

He backs away from their group before they reach the opening in the mountain that will lead to Orzammar itself. Suddenly, Rhyanon is the leader once again.

She lets the others decide whether to join her or stay on the surface, in camp. Alistair of course immediately volunteers to stay close to her. Zevran too is game to visit civilization in any form after weeks on the road. Morrigan surprises Rhyanon by wanting to come along, but she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised: Morrigan hates sitting still, hates being bored. 

The four of them descend the old mining tunnels that lead down to the dwarven capital. As they approach the city, a dwarf in ceremonial yet still very functional armor holds up a hand to halt them. 

“What brings you to Orzammar?” he asks, looking over their eclectic group. Morrigan bristles at being challenged, but Rhyanon simply steps forward, holding the Warden treaty in her hand. 

“I am a Grey Warden,” she says, her voice clear and calm. “I have a treaty requesting the help of the dwarves in the time of a Blight.”

Something flashes across the dwarven guard’s face, too quickly for Rhyanon to discern the emotion it carries. “I can let you into the city,” he says, “But good luck finding anyone to help you with your treaties.”

Rhyanon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid Orzammar doesn’t have a king at the moment. Unless you can break the Assembly’s deadlock, no one has the authorization to send armies to your aid.” 

Rhyanon shoots a glance at her companions, standing behind her, then turns back to the guard. “But you’re dwarves,” she pleads. “You have to know better than anyone that there’s a Blight threatening Ferelden.”

“Many of us would like to help you, my lady. But without a king…”

Rhyanon nods her understanding. Another problem she has to fix. As if she knows anything about dwarven politics. “Tell me who I need to talk to,” she sighs. 

The dwarf guides them into a large hall lined with ancient statues, gleaming golden in the reflecting light. Rhyanon is pretty sure she has never seen any kind of statue this large. Their heavy weight seems solid, ancient, as if they have stood here forever. 

“These are the Paragons,” their guide tells them. “Our ancestors. Heroes.”

“They’re beautiful,” Rhyanon says softly. 

The guard smiles. “I’m not sure how Endrin Stonehammer would feel about being called ‘beautiful.’”

Rhyanon frowns, immediately wondering if she should take back her words, if she said something wrong. But the guard is still smiling, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible, talking to himself. 

He brings them through the Hall of Heroes to the city of Orzammar proper. The Commons are crowded, with dozens of dwarves standing around watching two of their number in a heated argument. It looks like they’re about a step away from weapons being drawn. Rhyanon watches nervously. The guard who brought them here looks almost bored though, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You see what we face,” he says to Rhyanon. 

She still doesn’t know what she can do to help, but she resolves once again to do her best. 

“Who do you support?” she asks the guard. With no knowledge whatsoever about either of the candidates, she has no idea who she should throw her support behind. The candidates themselves think she represents the Wardens, that somehow her vote will lend Grey Warden aid to their agendas. Rhyanon wonders why the Assembly can’t choose a candidate on their own. Isn’t that their job?

“I don’t have an opinion,” the guard says. “Not really. I’ll keep my job regardless of who sits on the throne.” 

Rhyanon realizes that that’s probably true for most of the dwarves in this city. It’s only the nobles who really have any stake in this decision. She wonders, while talking to Aeducan’s lieutenant about the criminal element overtaking Dust Town, what would have happened if she had never come here. Would the dwarves turn to civil war? Might they still? 

She looks to Zevran. Somehow she thinks the Antivan assassin has some advice when it comes to navigating politics, though it may be a case of everything looking like a nail to a hammer. He does concede that taking one opponent out of the picture might be the simplest way to solve their convoluted problem. But Rhyanon won’t condone murder. 

Except that both candidates want her to go in to kill the leader of the Carta. Rhyanon tries to tell herself that the woman is a criminal, that she has done great harm to many, but her stomach still twists itself into a tangled knot. She signed up to fight darkspawn, not act as judge and executioner for a group of people to whom she doesn’t even belong. In the end, it’s Zevran who lands the killing blow on Jarvia. He cleans his knives while watching Rhyanon carefully, seeming to understand why she didn’t throw herself into the fight the way he’s seen her do against darkspawn and demons. 

Alistair too seems to register her discomfort. He squeezes her hand and pulls her out of Dust Town as quickly as possible. Rhyanon hopes that completing this “errand” might be enough to prove her support, it turns out that there is another task awaiting her. The dwarves want to send her into the Deep Roads to seek out one of their Paragons. 

“Well, we are Grey Wardens,” Alistair points out. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it?”

Rhyanon smiles, and hopes she doesn’t look as nervous as she feels. The truth is that she is not eager to go so deep underground. Alistair pulls her close and kisses her temple. “Don’t worry, Rhyanon,” he rumbles into her ear. “If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

He seems so confident in her. She nods and gives him a small smile, hoping she’s worthy of his belief. 


	16. Down Deep

There is an entire city above her head, an entire world on top of that. Rhyanon imagines that she can feel the weight of it all, about to crush her. Her chest squeezes too tight, making it difficult to draw in a full breath, and her anxiety is making her feel shaky and lightheaded. Alistair frowns at her, as they walk slowly and near-silently through the sloping, twisting tunnels of the Deep Roads. 

He opens his mouth to speak, at the same moment that Zevran makes a disgusted noise, and Rhyanon turns to see a couple of giant spiders, larger than she is, rapidly approaching their group. She takes a centering breath and gets control of her mana. She releases it in a wash of fire that sets the spider on the left shrieking and clicking furiously in its attempt to escape the blaze. Zevran and Alistair take their blades to the spider on the right with expert skill. The spider leaks green ichor rather than blood, and Rhyanon worries about poison. But after several minutes of continued assault from all sides, the spiders stop moving, laying on their backs, dead. Their stillness doesn’t make them any less disturbing, but it does make it possible for her to hear the sound of armored footsteps coming up behind them. She whirls around, spell already half-formed, energy crackling in her hand. 

A dwarf with very red hair and braided beard holds up his two hands in a gesture of peace. “I heard you were goin’ after Branka,” he growls. “I’m comin’ with ya.” 

Rhyanon narrows her eyes, but it’s Morrigan who speaks for the group. “We do not need a guide, dwarf.” 

“Listen, Branka’s my wife. If anybody’s gonna find her down here, it’s going to be me.”

Zevran trades a look with Alistair, and Rhyanon’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Your wife?” she repeats. Somehow she hadn’t imagined one of the dwarven Paragons having a husband. 

“That’s what I said,” the dwarf mutters, pushing his way forward. It’s obvious he’s not going to take no for an answer, and despite what Morrigan said, Rhyanon thinks it might be helpful to have a dwarf leading their way through the underground. He might know better than she does the threats that they may face. She nods permission, and he grins. 

“Have you been down here before?” she asks, as he starts making his way deeper into the tunnel. 

“I’ve been looking for Branka for years.”

“ _Years_ ,” Rhyanon repeats. “If you couldn’t find her for years, how am I ever supposed to find her?” 

“I heard you’re a Grey Warden.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you’re supposed to have some kind of special connection to the Deep Roads, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Rhyanon says, but she looks to Alistair for clarification. He just shrugs. She rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. “Fine, then. Let’s do this as fast as we can.”

Oghren nods approvingly, and leads them down the tunnel until they reach a crossroads. Rhyanon feels the same sense of awe she’d felt in the Hall of Heroes. The ancient dwarven thaigs are unlike anything she’d ever imagined in her life on the surface. 

“This is Caridin’s Cross,” Oghren tells them. There is reverence in his tone, something Rhyanon wouldn’t expect to hear outside a Chantry. But dwarves worship the Stone, and this deep underground, it’s all around them. Rhyanon wonders what it would be like to feel at home here. She can’t wait to get out, to see the sky again. “Come on,” Oghren says, waving them forward. “Look, Branka’s been here. There are remnants of her camp all through these ruins.” 

He shows them what he means, digging up the ashes of old cookfires, scraps of fabric, even a battered journal. That he keeps close, though they do not have the time for him to sit and read it. “She went after the Anvil of the Void,” he tells them. “Legendary artifact. Supposed to make golems.” 

Rhyanon has no idea what that means, but she nods, because Oghren thinks the thing is important, whatever it is. The dwarf continues moving forward, but he moves more slowly now, taking careful steps. “The Legion’s down here too,” he warns them. “Them and a horde of darkspawn.”

Rhyanon looks to Alistair, who nods. He can feel them, too. It’s like a tingling pressure at the back of her neck, a heat inside of her as her tainted blood responds to the darkspawn’s call. She grimaces, but prepares for battle and orders her companions to do the same. She can feel Morrigan calling up her mana, which sets her teeth on edge and pulls at the mana stirring itself up within her. Rhyanon exhales, trying to relax, to focus, as she drags her own mana to the surface and follows Oghren. 

The dwarf guides them through a series of bridges carved from the stone. And under the bridges, climbing up in surprisingly well organized groups, are the darkspawn he’d told them about. Rhyanon lets loose with spell after spell, hoping her speed might prevent the enemy casters from concentrating enough to get off a shot. She is successful about half the time, and with Morrigan backing her up, their little group makes progress, if slowly. 

“What’s to stop them all from trapping us in here?” she asks Oghren, as panic twists within her at the thought. He pants, holding a heavy two-handed axe, and shakes his head with a look on his face that says it’s a stupid question. 

“Nothing,” he tells her. Rhyanon frowns. Alistair sees it and steps closer to her, trying to reassure her with his physical presence. But she can tell that he is anxious, too. None of them were meant to come down this deep. This isn’t their terrain. She’s just starting to feel hopelessly overwhelmed by the number of darkspawn standing between them and their goal when Oghren steps to the side and reveals a squad of dwarves fighting tooth and nail against the ‘spawn. 

“Who are they?” Rhyanon asks. She wants to help them, but they are wading into the horde. They have no chance of survival, do they? 

“The Legion of the Dead,” Oghren replies. He hefts his axe and heads over to join them. Rhyanon glances at Alistair, Morrigan, and Zevran. 

The elf grins and clutches his knives tightly in his hands. “Lead the way,” he says, with a bow and a flourish. 

Rhyanon takes a breath and then does as he says. 

Once they’ve cleared out the darkspawn immediately surrounding the dozen or so dwarves in battle-worn armor, Rhyanon casts a wall of flame to serve as a barrier to keep the rest of the horde away from their small group. “I don’t know how long I can make it last,” she warns. 

The leader of the dwarven squad steps forward. “Nice to see a Grey Warden down here again,” he grunts. 

Rhyanon tilts her head forward in a motion of respect. “You’re not afraid of the darkspawn,” she says, and she can’t tell if it’s a question or an awestruck observation. 

The dwarf smiles slightly. “The dead don’t fear anything.” 

Rhyanon frowns. “What does that mean?”

“We in the Legion of the Dead have ended whatever lives we previously had. Our sole purpose now is to fight darkspawn, keep Orzammar safe. The Grey Wardens are our allies in this fight.”

“So you’ll help us against the Blight.”

“You fear the darkspawn because they surge onto the surface, threatening your world. We are constantly threatened, Blight or not. But the Legion will remain to battle the darkspawn below. We will hold the line for you.”

Rhyanon nods. “Thank you,” she says, aware of what a heavy sacrifice these men and women are making. How can she ask for anything more than what they are already giving?

Every member of the Legion salutes her, fist to heart, before returning to the fight. 

Oghren leads them away from the Legion’s bridge and the horde of darkspawn, taking them instead through narrow, twisting caverns. “Branka’s journal has a bit of a map in it, look.” He shows Rhyanon the book, the hand-drawn sketch that illustrates their path forward. She nods, and holds onto it with his permission. 

The deeper they get into the caverns, the darker it becomes. Rhyanon calls up a spell wisp to help light their way. It circles their heads, casting a pale blue-green glow over their surroundings. 

“What’s that?” Rhyanon asks. She swears she can hear something, some kind of chanting or singing. The words are hard to make out, she has to strain to hear them. 

“First day they come, and catch everyone…” The rough voice echoes off the walls, growing louder as Rhyanon grows closer to it. 

“Second day they beat us and eat some for meat…”

“I do not like this,” Morrigan hisses. Rhyanon nods. She doesn’t like it either. But there’s no way to go but forward, not if they’re going to find what they came here for. 

“Third day the men are all gnawed on again…”

Oghren looks horrified, and Alistair hovers close to Rhyanon protectively. Zevran slips through the shadows at the front of their group, scouting the path ahead. He rounds a corner and stops so suddenly that Rhyanon nearly crashes into him. 

“What-” she starts to ask, but he gestures for silence and she immediately bites her lip. She stands up on tiptoe to see what he’s looking at. A dwarf woman huddles in a crevice in the rock, barely large enough to hold her. She rocks back and forth, continuing her chant. 

“Fourth day we wait and fear for our fate…”

Rhyanon glances at Zevran, and at her wordless command he moves aside to let her pass. The rock hangs low here, close and claustrophobic. Rhyanon takes careful breaths and tries to tell herself that she’s fine. She doesn’t feel like it though, not with the woman’s unsettling words creeping in under her skin. 

“Fifth day they return and it’s another girl’s turn…”

“Who are you?” Rhyanon asks. The dwarf woman’s head snaps up, and her eyes latch on to Rhyanon. 

“Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams…”

“Hello?” Rhyanon asks, taking another step closer. The dwarf tracks her movements, and stills her rocking motion. “Who are you?” Rhyanon repeats. “Are you from Orzammar?”

“Orzammar. Yes, a long time ago. My name is Hespith.” She looks down at her hands, opens and closes them as if uncertain they belong to her own body. 

Oghren’s eyes widen, and Rhyanon sees the look on his face: recognition. “Where’s Branka?” he growls, advancing on the woman with axe drawn. 

“Oghren, stop!” Rhyanon commands. She grabs his arm and squeezes tightly. Electricity dances at her fingertips. 

“Branka,” Hespith repeats. “Branka cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Oghren asks, though he lowers his axe. 

Hespith begins rocking again. “First day they come, and catch everyone. Second day they beat us and eat some for meat…”

Rhyanon shoots Oghren an ugly glare, then turns back to Hespith. She crouches down in front of the traumatized woman, reaches out a hand to brush healing magic over her. But what ails Hespith isn’t anything magic can fix. 

“Third day the men are all gnawed on again. Fourth day we wait and fear for our fate.”

Oghren shifts uncomfortably next to Rhyanon as the horrible realization that Hespith’s rhyme is relaying the information they seek dawns. In her madness, she is telling them what happened to her, and maybe what happened to Branka. 

“Fifth day they return and it’s another girl’s turn. Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams. Seventh day she grew as in her mouth they spew. Eighth day we hated as she is violated.”

Rhyanon’s horror and disgust grow. She shuts her eyes, but that only makes the haunting singsong chant seem to grow louder in her ears. 

“Ninth day she grins and devours her kin. Now she does feast, as she’s become the beast.”

“What’s she talking about?” Rhyanon asks Oghren. She is barely able to force the words out through her nausea and fear. 

“Sounds like the darkspawn,” he replies. His voice is hard. Angry or scared, it’s hard to tell. Probably it’s both. 

Rhyanon has already begun to paint the picture that Hespith’s words illuminate. But she doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s too sickening to be real, so terrifying that she wants out of the Deep Roads now more than ever. She scratches at her own skin, feeling so trapped and desperate that her own body feels too tight. Alistair grabs her wrist, gently, and pulls her hand away from her body until it’s curled up within his own. “Alistair,” she pleads. “Let’s just go. Let’s just get out of here, please.”

“No way,” Oghren interrupts. “We have to find Branka.”

“You heard her!” Rhyanon shouts. “Branka’s probably dead!” She _hopes_ Branka is dead, when the alternative is… she shudders. Tears sting at her eyes. 

Alistair pulls her close and softly kisses the top of her head. “Rhyanon, the dwarves need us,” he reminds her. “We’re the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. We can’t run.”

“Were you even _listening_ to her?” Rhyanon cries. Alistair nods. He looks sick, but there is an unshakable determination in his eyes. 

“We have to find this Paragon. We’ve come this far. Now, the only way out is through.”

Rhyanon slowly nods. Alistair steps in front of her, shield held at the ready, protecting her. Zevran scouts ahead, with Oghren staying barely a step behind him in his haste to find his wife. Morrigan takes up the rear, silent. Only Rhyanon can tell by the way the other mage’s mana crackles and surges angrily that she too is reacting to Hespith’s disturbing reports of what happened here. 

As they round the corner, the horror becomes real. Rhyanon’s stomach clenches tight and bile rises up in her throat as they confront the only female darkspawn she’s ever seen. The monster is seemingly made up of nothing but breasts and tentacles, though it has an almost human-like head, with eyes, nose, and mouth surrounded by several rolling chins. It flails about when it sees Rhyanon and her crew, but it makes only gurgling sounds. Any ability to talk or reason, any sign of the dwarf woman she had once been, is long gone. Rhyanon swallows hard, as a wave of something that might be grief mixes in with her rage and terror.

A dozen of the broodmother’s darkspawn children rush out in front of it, snarling and swinging weapons. Rhyanon’s team gets into position without any verbal orders needing to be given. She and Morrigan take positions opposite one another, where their devastating primal spells can overlap and do the most damage. Oghren, Zevran, and Alistair charge in to take on the broodmother herself, aware that the darkspawn horde is neverending. If they try to fight it, they will certainly die in the attempt. Only killing the source of the spawn offers any chance at passage through these Dead Trenches. 

Rhyanon lets her emotions fuel her magic, releasing fireballs and lightning storms as Morrigan shakes the ground itself. Rocks fall down from the ceiling, threatening a total collapse of the tunnel. Rhyanon supposes that’s one way to end this battle. But somehow, the damage from Morrigan’s spells limits itself to the darkspawn while keeping Alistair, Zevran, and Oghren safe, though they fight in the same claustrophobic spaces. 

The broodmother lashes out with its tentacles, and Rhyanon can’t tell if they’re poisoned or if it only feels like acid burning through her skin when they touch her. Once she has hacked away at one of the tentacles with her sword, she puts her hand to her arm, where it had been, but she feels nothing out of the ordinary, and there’s no blood on her hand when she pulls it away. 

“Now!” Rhyanon calls to Alistair, as she freezes one of the monster’s tentacles. Alistair hacks through the ice, and the appendage crashes to the floor and shatters. Rhyanon gives a satisfied nod, takes a breath, and gathers up the mana to cast another spell. 

Wave after wave of darkspawn appears to shield the broodmother from the group’s attack, but the monsters have little in the way of tactical skill, and Rhyanon continues to urge her companions to focus fire on the broodmother. And the broodmother, though large and horrific, was never designed to be a soldier. Besides lashing out with its tentacles and spitting out the gobs of acid Rhyanon rightfully fears, it can’t do much. It hides behind its children as Rhyanon and Morrigan whittle it down with the kind of spells that show why mages should be feared. 

Zevran, Alistair, and Oghren may have gotten the killing blow. They certainly drew plenty of blood from the beast. Rhyanon sees the moment when the light dims from the broodmother’s eyes, and in that moment, something seems to loosen in her chest. It’s like she can breathe again, like a little bit of her terror has faded. 

She turns back, to Oghren, who is obviously fighting his own urge to go charging forward, and to Hespith. The dwarven woman talks to herself, voice pitched so low that Rhyanon has to strain to hear it. She can make out only a few words: “Laryn” “Branka” “obsessed” “anvil.” Finally, with surprising lucidity, she looks up and meets Rhyanon’s eyes. “The true abomination is not that it occurred, but that it was allowed,” she says. And before Rhyanon can stop her, she hurls herself off the edge of the precipice where the broodmother’s corpse sits. Only darkspawn wait below. Darkspawn, and the peace of oblivion. 

Alistair whispers a familiar prayer, but Rhyanon turns away from the dwarven woman’s suicide. _The only way out is through_ , Alistair had said. She follows Oghren into yet another underground cave.


	17. Power Politics

“It’s her!” Oghren exclaims, as he runs out ahead of the party, stopping just short of a dark-haired female dwarf. He seems to hesitate, and Rhyanon runs up to pull him back, knowing that hesitation will get him killed. “Branka!” Oghren wails. 

The woman turns, but displays none of the emotion one would expect of meeting your spouse for the first time in years. But Rhyanon’s hands clench into tight fists as she thinks about Hespith’s story, her last warning. “You let your own kin be turned into those monsters!” she yelled. “You stood by and watched, as they…” she stops. It’s too horrifying to continue, and Branka knows what she means anyway. “What in the Maker’s name could be worth that?” 

“The Anvil of the Void will save the dwarven people. With it, we can reclaim our old thaigs, our empire can once again span all of Thedas.”

Rhyanon can almost understand that. If Branka believes that these golems can clear out the darkspawn from the Deep Roads… almost anything would be worth that, wouldn’t it? Grey Wardens are supposed to be able to make the hard choices, to do whatever it takes to stop the darkspawn, whatever the cost. 

But Hespith’s rhyme still echoes in her mind, and she is not willing to condone such a cruel sacrifice, not for any reason. 

“I found the Anvil,” Branka says, talking too fast and not looking at any of them. She ignores Oghren most of all. “There are traps, though. Tests. Pathways I cannot conquer alone.”

“And I suppose you want us to solve these puzzles for you?” Oghren mutters. 

“We need you,” Rhyanon says. “The dwarven people need you. Orzammar is trying to choose a king and-”

“And they think I can break a deadlock, as Paragon. As if it matters to me who is king of Orzammar.” 

“Please,” Oghren pleads. “Please, Branka, just come home.” 

“I will not leave this place without the Anvil, and I can’t get to it without your help. You _will_ help me.”

“And if I do,” Rhyanon replies, with just as much intensity. “You’ll come back with us to Orzammar.”

Branka’s fingers tap frantically at her leg, but she nods. “Gladly.” 

Rhyanon breathes out a sigh of relief. She follows Branka’s instructions to a hallway wide enough for four men to walk abreast. Stone statues line the walls, looming at least twice Rhyanon’s height, or even taller. 

“Golems,” Oghren grunts, as the first one begins to come to life. The stone creature rips itself away from the wall and comes at Rhyanon with heavy fists swinging. With an effort of will, she freezes those massive arms in place, while Morrigan does the same to the other golem approaching from the opposite side. Oghren slams his hammer into the ice of the golem’s hand, knocking it to the ground. The golem seems unbothered by losing a limb. It continues advancing, until Rhyanon is certain that it’s plan is simply to step on her until she’s squished to tiny bits. 

_These_ are the things Branka wants to bring back to life? She wants to send an army of these things after the darkspawn? 

Rhyanon rolls out of the way of the approaching golem and throws another ice spell at its foot as it takes a step. Its own weight is enough to shatter the ice, sending it tipping to the side and unable to right itself. Alistair and Zevran jump on it, though their blades do little against the stone from which the golem is formed. 

“Get down!” Rhyanon calls. Alistair and Zevran leap back to the ground, and Rhyanon and Morrigan together blast the fallen golem with ice, until it stops moving. 

Rhyanon turns back to the other golem. Morrigan did a good job of slowing it down, but it’s still coming at them with single-minded purpose. Zevran runs down the hall, back the way they came, trying to get it to chase him. The golem does start heading in that direction, slowly and carefully. Once it has its back to her, Rhyanon takes a deep breath and casts another spell. She is running dangerously low on mana, and she steps back and lets Morrigan take over, wondering where the other mage finds her strength. Between the two of them, they manage to freeze and shatter this golem the same way they had the first. 

The continue to the other end of the hallway. Pain pulses behind Rhyanon’s eyes, and she feels dizzy. She isn’t supposed to let herself be drained. She knows her mana will replenish itself with time, if she lets herself rest, but they don’t have time and there is no safe place to crash in the Deep Roads. She’ll just have to do the best she can. 

Her head snaps up with recognition as a familiar sensation whispers at the back of her neck. She takes a step forward, toward a large stone statue in the middle of the room. This one isn’t a golem, rather a representation of four large heads, each one facing one of the cardinal directions. 

“What is this?” Zevran asks. Rhyanon shrugs. She feels the spirits or demons of the Fade hovering close to the statue. Their forms are hazy and indistinct, like the image of the Fade itself. They share the same green-gold color as the sky of the dream world. They radiate feelings of anger and loss, they croon a song to mourn the dwarves of old. Rhyanon wonders how long they have been trapped here. 

“Don’t get too close,” she warns her companions, but the fact remains that they’ll have to find some way through the spirits to get the Anvil that Branka so desperately needs. 

“I’m here to help,” Rhyanon says aloud. The spirits move restlessly. A couple of them move closer to her. She clutches her sword close, just in case, though she knows that it will be of little help against ghosts. 

“There is no help for us,” the ghosts wail, in eerie unison. 

“You must destroy the anvil,” barks one of them, the most solid form Rhyanon can see. The spirit is shaped like a dwarven man, dressed in full armor. He reminds Rhyanon, almost, of the soldiers of the Legion of the Dead. 

Her brow furrows. “Destroy it?” she repeats, but the ghost does not offer any further clarification. The spirits shift to allow Rhyanon and her party to pass through the room. When she turns back, they hover around the statue just as before. They really are trapped in here. 

Rhyanon moves forward into the next room, with Oghren right behind her and the others hurrying to catch up. Here, deep underground, is a forge like nothing she’s ever seen. An anvil, laced with veins of lyrium, stands in the center of the room, guarded by another golem. She glances at Alistair, but otherwise gives no indication of how desperate she is to avoid another fight. 

“Grey Warden,” the golem rumbles. “I am Caridin, creator of this Anvil of the Void.” 

“Caridin?” Oghren repeats. “That can’t be right. Caridin’s time was a thousand years ago.” 

“And yet, a golem cannot die. At least not from old age, the way a dwarf or a human can.”

“But you _created_ the golems,” Oghren protests. “You’re not supposed to _be_ one.”

“Many things have happened that were never supposed to be.”

“The spirits told me to destroy the Anvil,” Rhyanon says. She looks right into the golem’s glowing lyrium eyes. 

“Yes,” Caridin repeats. “Yes, you must destroy the Anvil.” 

“No!” Branka yells. The dwarven woman rushes forward. “I won’t let you!” She pulls out a sword, and standing there in her armor, with fierce fire in her eyes, Rhyanon can understand why she is a Paragon. But the dwarves who revere her don’t know what she _did_. 

“Wait a minute, Branka,” Oghren starts. He stands directly in front of his wife, trying to pull her attention to him and away from the Anvil. 

Rhyanon tries to add up everything she’s seen and heard, from Caridin, and from the spirits. “It turns people into golems,” she realizes. “Living people…”

“Would you destroy the dwarves to save them, Paragon Branka?” Caridin asks. 

“I won’t let you destroy it,” she snarls. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Branka, just listen to yourself!” Oghren cries, while Rhyanon can barely quell her rage. 

“You deserve to die after what you’ve done!” she yells. “You’re no hero!” 

Zevran hurls a knife at the dwarven warrior, seeming to take Rhyanon’s words as permission enough to begin the fight. Rhyanon knows full well that Zevran’s knives are dipped in poison, that even a shallow cut can be deadly as that poison infects the blood. But she doesn’t have the patience to wait for Branka to die of slow poison. She just wants to get out of these cursed Deep Roads as soon as she can. 

She fights with sword instead of spells, letting Alistair and Zevran get in ahead of her to box Branka in and prevent her from gaining reach. Morrigan paralyzes Branka, allowing the melee fighters to use their blades without having to worry about the dwarven woman parrying or counterattacking. Zevran’s poison locks her muscles even after Morrigan’s spell fades away, and her eyes slip closed as she falls bonelessly to the hard stone floor. 

“Is she…?” Rhyanon starts. 

Oghren sinks to his knees next to her and feels for a heartbeat, listens for a breath. He shakes his head and takes in a deep, shuddering breath. Rhyanon places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she says softly. He shakes his head and wipes his eyes with the back of his arm, then gets to his feet. 

“It’s better this way. That woman wasn’t Branka, not really. Not anymore.”

Rhyanon can feel Caridin’s lyrium eyes boring into her. She takes a step toward the Anvil, and calls up all of the mana she is capable of summoning. She lets it go as a blastwave of invisible force, which smacks into the Anvil and shatters the lyrium inside. Dozens of pieces of stone going flying in all directions, and Rhyanon crouches low with her arms shielding her face to avoid getting hit. The Anvil itself was so easy to break, after everything it took to get here. 

Caridin sags noticeably, somehow betraying his exhaustion and age despite his stone form. “Thank you,” he says. “Now, my time is ended. But before I rest, I will forge for you a crown. Give it to the new king of Orzammar.” 

“Come with us,” Rhyanon pleads. “You’re a Paragon, too. The Assembly will listen to you.”

“No,” Caridin replies immediately. “If the secret of the golems were to be revealed… Some things should die.”

“Okay,” Rhyanon whispers. 

Alistair sits with her in a corner of the cavern while Caridin works on the crown. She rests against his shoulder and lets her eyes drift closed. Her dreams are muddled and unsettling, but she can feel the warmth of Alistair’s breath against her skin, can feel the solidity of his arm around her. She isn’t sure how long she sleeps that way, but it must be hours given the stiffness of her muscles once her eyes open again. She feels much more alert, and her mana sings within her blood. She stands up and cracks her knuckles, then looks to Caridin. She can begin to see the shape of the crown unfolding. 

Alistair looks distracted, and Rhyanon frowns. “What’s wrong?” she asks him. He sighs heavily. 

“Arl Eamon’s called for a Landsmeet,” he finally tells her.

“You mean a gathering of all the nobles of Ferelden?” she asks, another piece of trivia cemented in her memory from a decade of Irving’s lessons. Alistair nods. “Why?” 

“Because he wants me to be king, Rhyanon!” 

She glances at Caridin, who holds a still molten-hot crown in his still hand. “And you don’t want that?” she guesses. 

Alistair shakes his head. “I can’t be king! Nobody in their right mind would follow a bastard child, a failed templar…”

“A Grey Warden,” Rhyanon adds. 

“Grey Wardens are sworn not to align themselves to political causes.”

“So if this is such a bad idea, why does Arl Eamon want it so much?” 

“He thinks having me on the throne would unite Ferelden during the Blight, when we need it most. I told him how I felt, but he never did listen to me.” 

“We’ll go talk to him,” Rhyanon promises. “We’ll get to Denerim as soon as we can.” 

Alistair runs his fingers quickly through messy hair and nods. “Thank you, Rhyanon. I just… thank you.” 

She gives him a quick kiss. “Don’t worry,” she insists. “We’ll figure this out.” 

Once Caridin’s crown has cooled, he hands it to Rhyanon and she begins the long trek back through the darkspawn-infested tunnels and thaigs, her party making their way slowly toward Orzammar. Oghren burns Branka’s journal so that no one else can find their way down into the birthing chamber of the golems. 

“I’ve never been so glad to see a city in all my life,” Zevran comments, when they return to the Orzammar Commons. Rhyanon nods agreement. She makes her way to the Assembly house and hands the Paragon’s crown to the steward. 

“Who did she support?” he asks her. Rhyanon looks to Oghren, but he just shrugs. 

“No one,” Rhyanon says truthfully. 

“Then we still have the same problem. Warden, you must help us.” 

“Wardens don’t get involved in politics,” she pleads, because it’s what Alistair just told her. The steward begins to fret, twisting his hands and opening his mouth to speak. But Rhyanon cuts him off. “Make Bhelen king,” she says. “But leave my name out of it.” 

“Of course, my lady!” the steward exclaims. 

Rhyanon nods, still tired. She’s all too happy to return to the Hall of Heroes and leave Orzammar behind. Now that she’s certain the dwarves will join her in the fight, it seems about time to take the war to the darkspawn. 

But first, she has a promise to keep. She watches Alistair stirring a pot of rabbit stew. ‘King Alistair,’ she thinks, testing the words in her mind. She doesn’t dislike the way that they sound.


	18. Kingmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for Attempted Sexual Assault in Fort Drakon. You can skip it by searching for "when the door to her cell clicks open" and then skipping two small paragraphs past that, picking up with "Rhyanon just grins."

Rhyanon follows Alistair through Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate, trying to take everything in. There are tapestries on the walls, thick rugs woven of deep colors lining the halls, rich foods at every meal. Rhyanon spent the first six years of her life in a house like this, but everything about it feels foreign to her now. The others in their party are camping outside the city, or staying at the inn in the market district. It’s just her and Alistair and Arl Eamon in this big house, trying awkwardly to pretend like they’re friends. Eamon respects Rhyanon because of her role in saving his life, but Alistair still defers to his authority and the arl seems to expect such behavior. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Rhyanon asks, after taking a sip of wine at the dinner table. Arl Eamon wipes his face with a napkin and studies her carefully. 

“Do?” he repeats. “Well, we’ll need to gather support for Alistair’s claim among the nobles, but Loghain still wants to kill you, so we’ll need to be very careful, obviously.” Alistair raises an eyebrow and shifts back in his chair. “Don’t worry,” Arl Eamon soothes. “I have my best knights here to protect you. And Teagan, of course.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Rhyanon mutters. 

Eamon shakes his head. “Anora is being held hostage in Arl Howe’s estate. We’ll need to get her out.”

“Why?” Rhyanon asks. “If she’s another contender for the throne, wouldn’t it be smarter just to keep her out of the way?” 

Eamon shakes his head. “I know Howe. He’s planning to kill Anora. He’ll blame us, eroding our support in the Landsmeet and securing his alliance with Loghain.”

“Anora is Loghain’s _daughter_ ,” Alistair insists. “Why in the Maker’s name would he support someone who kidnapped her?” 

“Didn’t you hear him?” Rhyanon snaps. “He said they’ll blame us. People already think King Cailan is dead because of us. They’ll believe it if the nobles start claiming we killed the queen, too.”

Alistair looks stricken, but Alistair is compulsively honest, a Chantry boy through and through. It’s only that he honestly wants to do the right thing that might make him the best king for Ferelden. 

“Can you send in some of your knights to rescue her?” Rhyanon asks. 

“No,” Alistair cuts in. She glances at him, shocked. “It has to be us. It’s the only way we might be able to get her support in the Landsmeet.”

“Why would she support us?”

“Not support me as king, she’ll never do that. But support us as Grey Wardens. If we rescue her from Howe, she might grant us that boon at least.”

Rhyanon nods, already starting to revise her opinion of Alistair’s political skill. “Okay,” she murmurs. She glances over at Eamon. “Do you have some kind of plan?” 

“Anora’s handmaiden managed to steal a couple of Howe’s guard uniforms. They should get you into his estate.”

“Getting in won’t be hard,” Rhyanon says. “It’s getting out again.”

“Howe has a number of political prisoners locked up in his dungeons. Releasing them should cause a big enough distraction for you to be able to sneak Anora out through a back door.”

Rhyanon glances at Alistair, but she can’t read anything on his face. “Alright,” she finally sighs. “I suppose there’s no time like the present.”

She and Alistair slip out into the streets of Denerim at night. Rhyanon would expect the criminals and carousers of the market district, but the noble’s district is different, just quiet, with every estate patrolled by guards. The Arl of Denerim’s estate looms over all of them. 

“Come on,” Alistair hisses. He grabs her hand and leads her into Arl Howe’s back garden. They duck down behind a large bush and hold their breaths as a guard passes. His torchlight sweeps over them, and Rhyanon holds her mana close, ready to cast, but the soldier walks right past them. After he has disappeared around a corner, Rhyanon nods to Alistair, and the two of them run for the servant’s entrance at the rear of the house. 

Rhyanon efficiently picks the lock, and she pushes Alistair inside ahead of her. They have entered into the kitchen, but thankfully this late in the day there is no one working inside. Rhyanon allows herself to breathe, and Alistair whispers a prayer under his breath, asking for Andraste’s guidance and the Maker’s protection. 

Rhyanon opens the door to the hall just a crack, and peers left and right. She can see a pair of guards standing at the end of the hall, but if she’s careful, they won’t see her. She pulls Alistair into the hall, and the two of them begin striding through the estate like they own it. In their guards’ uniforms, no one questions them. 

“Do you know how to get the dungeons?” Rhyanon asks Alistair quietly. He nods. Arl Howe’s estate isn’t laid out exactly the same way as the Arl Eamon’s castle back in Redcliffe, yet these places are similar enough that he has a basic lay of the land. He takes the lead, taking Rhyanon through the narrow passageways that lead down, into the cellars and the dungeons. 

Rhyanon shifts uncomfortably, and Alistair gives her hand a quick squeeze before pulling away. He knows she fears places like these, that the dungeons remind her of the cells deep within Kinloch Hold where mages are sent for punishment. “We’ll be quick,” he promises. Rhyanon nods. 

There are several guards in the dungeons keeping an eye on the cells and the torture rack in the middle of the chamber. Rhyanon disables one with a quick lightning bolt, and she takes the ring of keys from his belt before letting his unconscious body slide to the floor. She helps a young man off the rack. He can barely stand, so she does her best to guard him from Howe’s men. She disposes of a few more enemy guards with a well-placed fireball, and Alistair easily takes down the last one with his sword and shield. Rhyanon tells Alistair to keep an eye on the tortured young man she’d just rescued, while she takes the keys and begins opening up each of the cells. 

Just as Arl Eamon had promised, there are a number of prisoners here, everyone from a delirious templar to an elven man. All of the prisoners are in bad shape, but when Rhyanon asks them if they’ll be able to make it out into the city on their own, they answer in the affirmative. 

“Good luck,” Alistair tells them. Rhyanon just hopes she’s not sending them all to their deaths. 

“Why isn’t Anora down here?” she wonders. 

Alistair shrugs. “She’s probably too important to be kept in the dungeons. Howe will want her close. And if she’s just in a regular room, he can pretend he’s just keeping her safe, can’t he?”

“So she’ll be where? Upstairs?” 

“Yeah, probably.”

Rhyanon sighs. It seems unlikely that Howe’s regular guards patrol the sleeping quarters. But it’s still the best disguise they’ve got. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s take advantage of the escaping prisoners distraction while we’ve got it.” 

Alistair leads Rhyanon through the lesser-used pathways of the manor. They pass a few servants, but most of the household is sleeping at this time of night. Once they make it upstairs to Howe’s private quarters, Rhyanon looks around for any light spilling out from the cracks of the doors, but she doesn’t see anything. She listens, but she doesn’t hear anything out of the ordinary either. 

“There,” Alistair says, pointing to a door that looks the same as all the others to Rhyanon. “That’s where the queen will be.”

Rhyanon bites back the urge to ask him how he knows that, and just nods. She trusts him. He waits for her to test the lock on the door, then begin trying to pick it open. Once the door swings wide, Queen Anora turns from where she’d been standing at the window. Her eyes are wide, and only get wider as she recognizes Alistair Theirin standing in front of her. He smiles sheepishly. 

“Hello,” he mumbles. “We’re um… here to rescue you?” 

Anora glances at Rhyanon, then nods gratefully. The three of them make their way into the hall, and halfway down the stairs before they realize their error. Standing at the bottom of the stairs are Arl Howe himself, along with Loghain’s second in command, Ser Cauthrien, and a dozen guards wearing both Howe and Mac Tir colors. 

“Ser Cauthrien!” Anora cries. “Thank the Maker you’re here! These brigands tried to kidnap me!”

Rhyanon freezes momentarily, shocked by the woman’s betrayal, and Alistair pulls his sword and begins going toe to toe with Cauthrien. He doesn’t stand a chance. Cauthrien is one of the best sword fighters in all of Ferelden, and Alistair’s templar training is meant to hold up against the tactics of mages, not close-in warriors like her. He’s left on the defensive, and Cauthrien’s guards quickly swarm around him and Rhyanon. She tries to get off a spell, but something hits her in the back of the head and she falls. 

“Please don’t kill him,” she hears herself beg, as Cauthrien looms over her. She swears she sees the woman nod, and then the world goes black. 

When Rhyanon next opens her eyes, her vision is blurry, and she immediately vomits up everything she had in her stomach. Her hands are bound behind her back in anti-magic shackles, and her pounding headache and all over weakness prove she’s been fed magebane. She is naked except for her smallclothes. “Alistair!” she cries, stumbling to her feet. She looks around, but even with her swimming vision, it’s obvious she’s alone in her cell. What happened to him? He isn’t dead, is he? He can’t be. 

She hears tromping footsteps as a guard responds to her yelling. “Shut up!” he snaps. Rhyanon says nothing, and he gives a satisfied nod, though he lingers close to her cell, just out of reach. Rhyanon sits down again, tries to get a handle on what happened. Queen Anora had betrayed them. Rhyanon curses herself for not expecting such a thing. She learned a long time ago not to trust anyone but herself. 

But she's a mage. She was purposely removed from the circles of nobility, she knows nothing about them, she doesn't understand the first thing about the games they play. In the Tower, it's easy. Mage or Templar. Locked doors, explicit threats, everyone's eyes on one another, all the time. It's impossible to keep secrets in such a place. She has no business playing politics.

She looks around, struggling to make sense of what she sees, to pull apart the strings. Where is she? Not in Howe’s dungeons, that much is obvious. And the guard isn’t wearing Loghain’s colors. She’s still in Denerim, isn’t she? How long has she been here? 

She closes her eyes against the too-bright torchlight and tries to catch her breath and quell the stabbing pains in her stomach. Why haven’t they killed her? What do they want? She has to get out of here. All of Ferelden is counting on her. She sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, head down, shoulders shaking as she sobs softly, hopelessly. 

And when the door to her cell clicks open, her head snaps up. She doesn’t miss the way the guard is leering at her. “Aw, cheer up, my lady,” he taunts. “I bet I can make you feel better.”

Rhyanon spits in his face, and a heavy slap lands on her cheek. The guard lifts her to her feet. “Be a good girl,” he snarls, getting in her face. His breath is hot and foul-smelling. Rhyanon bites his neck, hard enough to draw blood. The guard drops her, and puts a hand to his bleeding wound. 

“You _bitch,_ ” he snarls. 

Rhyanon just grins. She bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, then spits into his wound, blood-to-blood, creating a bond between them. It disgusts her, but she will do _anything_ to get out of here. She won’t sit here waiting to die. 

“Open the door,” she orders. The guard nods and does as he is told. Rhyanon squirms. She's never used blood magic like this, never used it against another person, corrupting their mind like this. She didn't even know she knew how, but it came easy. Too easy. It twists her up inside, makes her hate herself. But if she doesn't do this, she is going to die. So she orders the guard to undo her handcuffs. They fall to the floor with a loud clatter. “Now undress,” she tells him. He does so, and Rhyanon pulls on his uniform. She breathes a sigh of relief and steps out of the cell. She can feel the guard’s presence in her mind, she can feel the blood-tie tethering them together. It sickens her, but she can’t afford to release it. Not yet. She has to find Alistair. 

She searches the cells around her, but all of them are empty, and look like they have been for awhile. She continues past the guard, walking deeper into the prison even though it goes against every instinct in her body. She can hear screaming coming from a room at the end of the hall. A torture chamber, almost certainly. Her stomach clenches painfully as she realizes that that’s where Alistair must be. She hurries down the hall and pushes open the door. The torturer spins around, and Rhyanon can see that he is holding a vicious curved knife in one hand. Blood drips from its blade. 

“What are you doing here?” the man snarls. 

Rhyanon holds up a hand as well as the guard’s sword. She can’t speak without giving away her identity, and with magebane in her system she can’t cast without using blood magic. She’ll use it as a last resort, but she knows how Alistair feels about it. The last thing she needs is him questioning her now. 

The interrogator has no protection except the knife in his hands, which Rhyanon easily knocks away. He falls to his knees, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. Rhyanon looks to Alistair, but he’s barely coherent. Still, she hesitates to murder someone in front of him, even if the man surely deserves it. Instead, she stabs him in the leg, making sure he won’t go running to tell anyone about their escape. He howls with pain, until Rhyanon rips a scrap of cloth off her borrowed uniform and gags him. 

She pulls Alistair up, and half-carries him out of the room. He’s bleeding on her, from dozens of wounds, but she doesn’t have time to stop or heal him now. “Come on,” she pleads with him. “Stay with me. It’s just a little bit farther.”

As they pass the guard still locked in Rhyanon’s prison cell, she gives one more command: “Sleep.” The guard is snoring, sprawled out on the floor, in under a minute. Rhyanon lets go of the bond between them. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, and then she leads Alistair up the stairs away from the cells. 

A mabari waits for them at the top of the stairs, barking and drawing two guards close to it. Rhyanon sighs. She’s already so exhausted, barely able to keep standing upright. There’s no help for it. She slices open her left hand with the guard’s sword at her hip, and uses the blood to fuel a push of invisible magical energy. The force hurls the two men and the dog away from her, sending them crashing into the wall. It’s almost exactly what she’d done to Greagoir’s templars the day she left Kinloch Hold. Only now she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Rhyanon,” Alistair tries to protest, but what can he say?

“I’m sorry,” she replies, though this is only partially true. “Come on,” she insists, pulling him forward. She doesn’t know where she is, much less have a map of this place, but she continues down the hallway in a straight line until she reaches a door that leads outside. She peeks out, and sees an officer chewing out some hapless souls wearing armor just like hers. She takes advantage of their distraction and leads Alistair past them the opposite way. 

She sees only one more pair of patrolling city guards on the other side of the gated wall that rings the huge fortress. She waits for them to pass, then helps Alistair climb the wall and jump down to the other side. He’s able to find handholds and footholds by following her lead, and he even starts trying to talk until she shushes him. “We have to get to safety first,” she insists. “Then I’ll listen to everything you want to say. I promise.”

“Okay,” Alistair agrees readily enough. Rhyanon grabs his hand and leads him through the Denerim streets, back to Arl Eamon’s estate. 

“Thank the Maker you’re alright!” Teagan exclaims once he’s opened the door. He frowns when he sees the blood all over their clothing. Rhyanon sits Alistair in a nearby chair and asks Teagan to fetch some bandages. Until the magebane within her fades away, she’ll have to rely on conventional healing. Luckily, none of Alistair’s wounds are immediately life-threatening, though the risk of infection is high. 

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Alistair insists. Rhyanon believes him. 

She can hear pounding footsteps as Arl Eamon hurries down the stairs. “Teagan said…” he starts, but then he just shakes his head. “Escaping Fort Drakon,” he mutters. “Oh, the stories they’ll tell about you.” He frets, constantly looking toward Alistair and back to Rhyanon. “Are you sure you’re well enough for the Landsmeet?” he finally asks. 

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Alistair replies. 

Rhyanon winces, remembering yet again that Alistair doesn’t want to be king. But there’s no one she trusts more, and after Anora’s betrayal that certainly can’t support her claim to the title. Surely, he must see that. She gives him a smile that she hopes is reassuring, and then nods to Arl Eamon. 

Eamon and Teagan walk with Alistair and Rhyanon to the Royal Palace, where the main hall is filled with nearly all of Ferelden’s nobility. Ser Cauthrien tries to get in their way, but Eamon easily talks her down, appealing to her sense of honor. They take their seats, and the debate begins. 

Rhyanon blocks out most of it and focuses on Alistair. He watches the proceedings with his hands closed into tight fists. Rhyanon knows he thinks no one will listen to him, and it is true that she hears whispers directed at him: “bastard,” “gutter rat,” “doesn’t belong here.” Alistair obviously hears them, but he sets his jaw and acts like he doesn’t. There are other, more dangerous words: “traitor” and “usurper.” These words are aimed at both of them, and could get both of them killed. 

Rhyanon tries to listen to Arl Eamon, but she doesn’t even hear Alistair’s name coming out of his mouth. Instead, he talks about a slaving ring in the alienage and the prisoners in Arl Howe’s dungeons. Rhyanon isn’t quite sure how any of that is supposed to help them, but she supposes he’s trying to erode the people’s trust in Loghain. 

It seems to have worked. A large majority of the nobles throw in their support behind Eamon and Alistair. But Rhyanon’s only half paying attention to the nobles and their shouting. She finds Loghain, sitting silently, and she can see in his eyes that he’s made his decision, but no one else has realized it yet. 

He stands up, clears his throat, and calmly says "I charge Eamon, Alistair, and this Warden with treason. Take them outside to await execution."

Alistair pales, and Rhyanon grabs his hand. He shakes her off, and steps forward, to challenge Loghain honorably, man to man. He doesn’t _want_ to be king, he’s been told his whole life that he can’t be, that he’s nothing but a lowborn commoner, not in line for the throne ever, no matter what. He’s been told that if he ever tried to make a claim on the Theirin name, it would rip apart the nation. But he glances back at Rhyanon, and he knows that he has to protect her. He will never let anyone hurt her. And she’s been running from an execution order for so long, there is nothing she fears more. 

And somebody has to stop the Blight, and they are the only ones who can. 

They both ready for a fight, and Eamon’s voice booms in the background: “We will not let them take us!”

Alistair makes sure he’s between Loghain and Rhyanon, and except for keeping tabs on her, he is aware of nothing except his sword and his shield, and the rhythm of battle. Swords clash all around them. Rhyanon holds hers in her hand and tries to hold her own against Loghain’s men. 

“Enough!” shouts a familiar voice that makes Rhyanon and Alistair both freeze. Alistair sneaks a guilty glance up at the balcony, and Rhyanon scowls as the Grand Cleric declares: “There will be no further bloodshed in the Landsmeet.” It is not a request. 

Someone calls for a duel. Loghain sneers at Alistair, but he nods. 

In the old days, they said winning one of these things meant you were touched by the Maker's favor. Rhyanon watches Alistair, holding his own against the best swordsman in Ferelden, and wonders if that’s true. He certainly looks like he’s got some kind of supernatural boost when he presses an advantage and corners Loghain, pressing him against a wall. 

“Yield,” he snarls, but Loghain shakes his head. Alistair stabs him in the gut, and watches him fall. His blood pools on the stone floor. 

Just before he dies, Loghain coughs, and smiles. "Good. There is some of Maric in you after all."

Alistair says nothing. His eyes find Rhyanon, and he looks so bitter and exhausted that her heart sinks. But he finds her, and gathers her up in his arms. 

Eamon tries to congratulate him, but Alistair ignores him. “We have to focus on the Blight,” he says to Rhyanon, and she nods agreement. She knows Alistair won’t thank Eamon for what he’s just done, but she does. Because of Eamon, they have the support of the nobility of Ferelden, and all the soldiers and knights that they command. They have an army, and she knows they are going to need it.


	19. Sex Magic

Rhyanon glances at Alistair. They are sitting uncomfortably far away from each other at Eamon’s dining room table. The Arl of Redcliffe frowns at Rhyanon. She’s been getting a lot more dirty looks from him lately, and she knows why: he sees her as a distraction, trying to pull Alistair from his duties as king. 

“I have to talk to you,” Alistair says, after they’ve finished their meal and the plates have been cleared. He sounds nervous. Rhyanon nods, wondering what’s wrong. She follows him up to his bedroom, one of Eamon’s grandest guest suites. Her room is significantly smaller, and located about as far from Alistair down the long hall as is possible. She’s not bothered by the accommodations, but Eamon’s blatant attempt to keep them away from each other draws her ire. 

“We have to talk about the future,” Alistair says softly, pleadingly. 

“Why?” Rhyanon blurts out. Grey Wardens don’t think about the future. It’s not something they’d get anything out of dwelling on. And Alistair has never asked her to think about the future, until now. 

He sighs heavily and sits down on the bed, beckoning her closer. Rhyanon shakes her head. She can’t sit still. She paces the room instead. “Rhyanon, stop,” Alistair begs her. “Please.”

Her eyes flick over to his, and her mouth is drawn into a tight line, but she does as he asks and stills her restless movements. 

“Rhyanon, I… for this to work, for me to be king… I’ll have to have an heir. The Theirin line can’t die with me, that’s the whole point.”

“So?” Rhyanon’s brow wrinkles in confusion. She knows she’s not a noble, not a  _ queen _ (and she never will be: “Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him”). But she’s still a perfectly functional  _ woman _ . “Are you asking… Alistair, I can bear you a child, if that’s what you want.”

But he’s already shaking his head. Because she’s a  _ mage _ . Because there’s no way for anything between them to be honest or sanctioned or blessed by the Maker. Rhyanon doesn’t trust in the Maker’s blessing, but Alistair does, and this is important to him. He won’t sire another bastard child. Not even with her. 

“Wardens can’t have children,” he says slowly. “At least not with each other. The darkspawn taint… corrupted blood from even one parent, it’s… not recommended. I wouldn’t at all, except…”

“The heir thing.”

“Yeah. The heir thing.” He takes a stuttering breath and looks up at her, so hopeless and helpless that Rhyanon’s heart twists. “I never wanted this,” he pleads. “I told you that, Rhyanon, I don’t want this. I want you.”

Rhyanon nods, but she already doesn’t believe him. She’s already planning for him to leave her behind, leave her alone. Everyone always does. She schools her features into a careful mask and takes a deep breath. It’s worse if you lose control. It hurts more. But Alistair surely sees the tears pooling in her eyes. He gets up from the bed and pulls her into his arms, holds her close.

“Rhyanon, I can’t…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence so it’s impossible to know where he was going with it. Can’t stay. Can’t leave. “If I’m king, I’ll have to have a wife. It can’t be you.” He lays out the words, raw, each of them with knife-point edges that leave her bleeding. 

“I don’t  _ care _ ,” she cries. “I don’t have to be your wife, I just want…”

Alistair closes his eyes. His lips brush against hers, but he pulls away too quickly. “What you’re asking, it isn’t fair. Not to you or me or her, whoever it ends up being.”

She shoves him away from her, hard. He stumbles and nearly falls, but he rights himself quickly enough. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. “If I knew you were going to kick me to the curb the minute you got the crown, I would have supported Anora!”

“You should have!” Alistair yells back. It’s what he’d been saying all along. 

“Fine!” Rhyanon screams. She leaves the room and slams the door behind her. 

“Fine,” Alistair mutters, watching her leave. He sits down on the bed and hangs his head, while his fingers twitch next to him on the bedspread. He traces one of the threads under his thumb and prays to the Maker that he can find a way to fix this. Because Rhyanon is the one good thing he’s ever had in his life, and he can’t see a future without her in it. 

He sighs, scrubs at his face, and heads back down the stairs to Eamon’s study, which they’re using as a temporary war room. It turns out one of the prisoners they’d liberated from Howe’s dungeon is a Warden: Riordan, a man Alistair vaguely remembers from the night of his Joining. It’s a relief to leave the battle planning up to someone who actually knows what he’s doing. 

Riordan obviously sees the look on Alistair’s face, but wisely chooses not to ask about it. Instead, he shows the younger Warden his map of Denerim. “Lots of bottlenecks,” he points out. “Chokepoints. That’s good. If we put the mages on the walls, they can do a lot of damage before the darkspawn even get to the gates.”

Alistair nods, but wonders briefly why they let it get to the point where they have to fight against the horde in their capital city. If he and Rhyanon hadn’t had to go to every corner of Ferelden running errands in exchange for the promise of soldiers, could they have put the battle on better terrain? It’s an infuriating thought, but he can’t dwell on it. This is what they have in front of them. He’ll just have to deal with it. 

Rhyanon joins them a half an hour later, though she says nothing to either Alistair or Riordan unless asked a direct question, and even then she won’t look at them. But the darkspawn horde is only a day out from the city, giving them less than twenty-four hours to prepare. She can hardly afford to sit around pouting. 

“Shut the door,” Riordan says, and Rhyanon does. “What I say does not go beyond the three of us, do you understand?” Rhyanon nods, and when she glances at Alistair, he nods too. Riordan draws in a heavy breath, and slowly exhales. “There is a secret to being a Grey Warden,” he explains. “A secret to how we end the Blights. In order to stop the archdemon, we… accept the darkspawn’s soul into our own bodies, killing ourselves along with the monster.”

“You’re saying…” Alistair starts. 

“Yes,” Riordan says, over top of him. “One of us has to die.” 

Rhyanon shoots Alistair a glance, then looks back to Riordan. Somehow, she isn’t even surprised. It’s like she’s known this all along. Her hair falls into her face as she bows her head. 

“I intend to be the one to strike the killing blow,” Riordan announces. “But you two… needed to know.”

Rhyanon nods her thanks and still doesn’t know what to say. She leans over the map, runs her fingers over the market district, the alienage, even Fort Drakon. “What’s the plan for dealing with the archdemon?” she finally asks. “How do we trap it?”

“Leave that to me,” Riordan declares. “Go get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

Rhyanon follows Alistair up the stairs, lingers at his doorway, but eventually, she continues down the hall to her own room. She freezes when she opens the door, to see Morrigan sitting on her bed, with a lazy smile on her face. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks carefully. 

“I have your way out,” is the response, as cryptic as ever. “The loop in your hole.”

“What are you talking about?”

Morrigan beckons her closer, and Rhyanon shuts the door and stands just inside of it, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrow raised. And the Witch of the Wilds speaks of a ritual, old magic, dark magic ( _ sex  _ magic. Is that even a thing?). She promises that it will keep both Rhyanon and Alistair alive, should Riordan fail. It should offer a glimmer of hope, this idea, but… Rhyanon shakes her head. 

She can’t imagine a world where Alistair would ever willingly have sex with Morrigan, but more than that, what would they be creating? A darkspawn abomination? No. Even if she wanted to do this, even if she thought it was a good idea, and she doesn't, she could never ask him to participate in something like this. It would mean turning his back on everything that makes him who he is. It would kill everything they ever had. This is no loophole. This changes nothing.

"No deal,” she tells Morrigan flatly. 

The Witch tells her that she’s making a mistake, but she leaves when Rhyanon asks her to, and that’s something. And they’ll be on the same battlefield in the morning. 

Rhyanon scrubs her face with her hand, looks at the bed, and knows that she won’t sleep. 

She pads softly down to Alistair’s room, and knocks quietly on his door. His confusion expression melts into a smile when he sees her. “I thought you were mad at me,” he says. Rhyanon shakes her head. 

Alistair pulls her into the room and shuts the door, and hugs her close. In this moment, Rhyanon doesn’t care that he’s the king and doesn’t care that he’s going to leave her. She needs him for tonight, because tomorrow she might die. And she isn’t afraid. She’s surprisingly content with the knowledge. She’s been running from a death sentence for so long, but this: this isn’t a sentence, it’s a sacrifice. If she can give her life to save the lives of all of Ferelden, how can she  _ not  _ do it? She knows they won’t mourn her - she’s still a mage, after all - but that doesn’t even matter. It’s still worth it. 

She doesn’t tell Alistair what she’s thinking. She’s so afraid of starting another fight. 

“Alistair, I want to be with you tonight. I just want to shut out the rest of the world, just for a few hours, I want…”

“Okay,” he breathes. 

He guides her to the bed, and then Rhyanon's hand is suddenly on his body, first his arm, then his chest. Alistair swallows hard, afraid to admit that he has no idea what he's doing when it comes to  _ this _ . Is he supposed to take off his clothes? Is she? He's embarrassed to ask.

And yet she's looking up at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to do something. He clears his throat, and it sounds unbelievably loud in the quiet of the room. “Rhyanon,” he murmurs softly, afraid to break the spell. “Is it okay if I...?”

She nods yes, biting her lip, and rolling her eyes in clear exasperation. Does her skin feel warmer, now, or is that just his imagination? “Okay,” Alistair says aloud, one last reassurance before he plunges ahead. He can feel the blush reddening his cheeks, but Rhyanon doesn't seem to care. As he sits there, helplessly watching, she pulls her shirt up and over her head. Her rounded breasts peek out from the top of her breast band, and Alistair's heart starts beating faster.

“Your turn,” Rhyanon murmurs.

Alistair frowns. “My? Oh!” He keeps his eyes on hers as he follows her command, pulling his shirt off and grinning, as though he's followed through on a dare. But this is  _ so  _ much better.

He reaches out and runs his fingers over Rhyanon's curving breasts. She holds up a hand to stop him, but only for a moment, as she reaches behind her to undo whatever clasp holds the breast band in place. It falls to the floor, and Alistair's eyes widen. Rhyanon smiles at him, and the next thing he knows, he has cupped her breast in his hand, and leaned in to kiss her. It's easier this time, he isn't so scared, and as his lips press against hers, he becomes aware of Rhyanon's fingers pulling at the waistband of his trousers. He wriggles a little, making it easier for her to work the pants down, letting them slip into a puddle of fabric at his feet. And then he's standing there stark naked, feeling like an absolute idiot.

And then – and  _ then – _ Rhyanon has his member in her hand, running her fingers over the sensitive flesh until he's practically crying with need and want and desperation. Her thumb slowly trails down his length, which seems to grow even harder in response to her touch. “Maker,” he pleads, and Rhyanon just grins wickedly. How in the name of the Void does she know how to do this? He never thought it was possible to feel so good.

He closes his eyes and hums a little as Rhyanon's skilled hands bring him to release. And then she's kissing him again, breathing a little more heavily than she was before. Or maybe that's just him.

And then it's a little while later, seconds or minutes, he isn't sure, but they're both lying there on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Somewhere along the way, Rhyanon has lost her clothes too, so that she is just as naked as he is, and they're pressed together, skin to skin. Alistair wraps his arm around her, listening to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. And then she's asking if he wants, and he's nodding yes –  _ Maker _ , yes.

And then he slides himself inside her, too slowly, cautious and hesitant, but she keeps encouraging him and then finally he's  _ there _ , and there's no going backwards now, and she's grinding her hips and coaxing him forward in a kind of desperate rhythm that somehow makes perfect sense. He moves faster now, and with more certainty. He isn't afraid anymore, or else if he is then it's the kind of fear that doesn't matter. His body is soaked with sweat and so is Rhyanon's, and her hair dances with static. Eventually, there's an explosion, a release of energy that leaves them both gasping. Alistair rolls onto his back, sneaking a glance at Rhyanon from the corner of his eye. She's propped herself onto her side, so that she is looking down at him. He feels himself blushing. “Was that... did I do it right?” he wonders.

In response, Rhyanon leans in close, to brush her lips across his. 


	20. Sacrifice

Rhyanon squints into the dawnlight, trying to make out individual darkspawn in the horde that is cresting the horizon. From this vantage point, they just look like a wave, a black tide of death about to roll over all of them. She remembers Ostagar, and her stomach churns with fear and dread. She has to fight the urge to vomit. She climbs down from the top of the wall and walks over to where Alistair and Riordan are standing, waiting for her. She’s already split up the rest of her companions, sending them each to where they can do the most good. Only the dog remains, standing obediently at her side. She reaches down to scratch between his ears. 

She sees Alistair flinch as above them, screaming in the sky, the archdemon makes its appearance.  She'd thought the dreams were bad, but there's no way an image in her head could convey the sheer terror this monster inspires. Good soldiers break and run under its shadow, and they do not survive because there is nowhere to flee.

“I’ll lead it to Fort Drakon,” Riordan shouts, over the sounds of the battle taking place all around them. “Meet me there.” 

Rhyanon glances at Alistair and then nods, and Riordan runs down a narrow alleyway and disappears. She and Alistair make their way to the market district, where the darkspawn have already breached the gates. Fire and bodies litter the streets. Rhyanon swallows hard. Their soldiers are fighting with everything they have, everyone from Denerim’s City Guard to the Dalish and dwarves she’d used the treaties to recruit. Eamon’s men, along with the rest of the nobles’ knights and conscripted soldiers, fight to prevent any more of the ‘spawn from making it into the city. 

She sees one of the darkspawn alphas, their generals, directing them into the wrenched-open gates of the alienage. Zevran is in there along with many of the Dalish, rallying the elves around them to defend their homes. Rhyanon turns away, knowing she has her own battle to fight. But people keep looking at her, and Alistair: king and commander, Grey Wardens, heroes. The common soldiers expect them to know what they’re doing. They want to look at her and Alistair and see hope. 

Rhyanon isn’t capable of giving any speeches or looking inspiring. She just fights, pulling darkspawn away from the farmers and guardsmen and paralyzing them with primal magic. She tears them apart with fire, lightning, and ice. Men and women form up behind her and press the attack in the spaces she clears for them. 

In a rare moment to pause, she wipes the sweat from her face, downs a vial of lyrium, and looks toward the Chantry. As in Redcliffe all those months ago, the Chantry is one of the strongest buildings in the area, and will serve to protect the children and other non-combatants. A ring of dwarves from Orzammar’s army stands ready to defend the people inside. Rhyanon catches their commander’s eye, and gives him a quick salute, fist to heart. He nods and returns the gesture. 

“Rhyanon!” Alistair yells. “Come on!”

She nods, weaving through the narrower alleyways with him, staying clear of as much of the fighting as they can, for now. They have to get to Fort Drakon. They have to save their strength for the archdemon. They have to trust that the army they’ve gathered will stand. Without that trust, this is all for nothing. 

Rhyanon knows that while she and Alistair are sneaking around in the chokingly tight gaps between buildings, that others are dying for them. The guilt is almost overwhelming. She has her hand wrapped tightly around her sword, and her mana buzzes at the surface of her skin. She can feel the archdemon tracking her, snarling and screaming as she gets closer. She can feel the beast’s beady yellow eyes watching her. She looks up, to see it circling Fort Drakon. 

She doesn’t see Riordan until she sees him fall, so far that there isn’t even a broken body to find. One minute he’s alive and then he isn’t. She freezes. She almost falls to her knees. What is the fucking point of all this if she can’t save anyone? Around her, fires still burn. People are still screaming, and dying. The darkspawn are rampaging through the city all around her and she can’t even… Alistair grabs her hand. 

She looks up, shocked, and he puts his hand on her cheek and makes sure she’s looking at him. “It will be okay,” he says to her. She shakes his head, because she can’t see how, but when he asks “Do you trust me?” of course the answer is yes. “Good,” he says. “Then follow me.”

She does. She follows him as he leads her through the streets of the noble’s district toward Fort Drakon. There are fewer darkspawn here. Still dozens, maybe hundreds, but they clump up in small groups and Rhyanon is able to dispatch many of them with her spells. A well-placed fireball or chain lightning bolt can clear a path for them for at least half a minute, allowing them to catch their breaths before wading into the fight again. She drinks another vial of lyrium. Alistair doesn’t even say anything. 

When they finally do make it to Fort Drakon, it’s only to find more death, more dark shadows, more blood and more screaming. She remembers the torture chambers in the depths of this place and she can’t help but think that death is what it all was built on, what it’s for. She crosses the threshold that separates the fort from the rest of the city, and fear settles into her stomach and makes every step heavier. She forces herself to keep breathing, keep moving, one step at a time. Alistair is right in front of her, guiding the way. 

They have to fight their way through knots of darkspawn that block their passage through the halls. Rhyanon chews her way through them with primal magic. In moments like these, it’s easy to understand why people fear her, why they want her locked up. She’s become little more than a war machine, trailing violent destruction behind her in an unmistakable path. 

They climb up, have to get to the top of the tower, and it comes to her mind unbidden: the image of Ostagar, when they'd done this same thing, when she and Alistair were still hesitant around each other, before she felt comfortable fighting, back when they'd known that  _ yes _ , this was scary, but they still had a whole army, a whole nation, king and Wardens alongside them, waiting for a signal, a fire to win a war.

Now, they only have each other.

But it's enough, because they get to the roof, and she realizes she isn't scared anymore. There's nothing in her but determination, a sense of  _ purpose _ . She knows why she's here, she knows what to do.

The archdemon's roar deafens her. The stones beneath her feet shake and crack, and some even fall. A choking haze of smoke surrounds them, every breath is full of the stench of charred meat, burning bodies. She runs, dodges, almost slips on a patch of her own conjured ice. Sweat pours into her eyes, pain twinges at her, nagging from faraway injuries she can't be concerned about now.

Rhyanon gasps in shock as the dragon throws one soldier after another over the edge of the tower. They die just like Riordan died. Other men and women are snapped up into the creature’s jaws. Rhyanon’s head is throbbing with agonizing pain. The close presence of the archdemon trying to speak to her is more than she can take. She looks over at Alistair, and he looks visibly pale. He grits his teeth and lifts his sword, and runs in to join the battle. Rhyanon stays as far away from the archdemon as she can, launching spells from a distance. 

The dragon screams as the army she's gathered rallies around her. There are swords and arrows and fire and acid, and this leader of the darkspawn horde inspires terror, but it is only one, and they batter away at it, a thousand tiny cuts that leech away its tainted blood. They are losing so many people to make such slow progress, though. The demon barely looks hurt, except that when she tries, she can see pools of its black blood leaking into the stone. 

Riordan said a Grey Warden has to be the one to kill it. She can’t afford to wait. Every long minute they drag out this fight, more of her soldiers are dying. 

She steps out toward the archdemon, and the world seems to freeze around her. The creature’s yellow eye blinks and rolls toward her, locking onto her, watching her with surprising intelligence. Rhyanon grips her sword and takes a breath... and then Alistair grabs her arm. She whirls around. 

“Alistair, we don’t have time-” 

“I won’t let you  _ die _ ,” he hisses. 

She pushes her way out of his arms and shakes her head. “I’ve decided,” she demands. “Anyway, you  _ can’t  _ die, not after all that work I did to put you on the throne.”

He smiles. "What better king could I be? Sacrificing myself to stop the Blight, before it ever starts. That's worth a song or two at least.”

He pushes her out of the way, hard enough that she falls, and he begins sprinting toward the archdemon. Rhyanon fumbles to cast an ice spell, to freeze him in place, but her concentration is shaken and her mana is low. She’s out of lyrium. She’s out of time. “Alistair, stop!” she cries. “Stop! It’s supposed to be me.” She manages to get to her feet, but it’s far too late to catch up to him. 

He does stop, though. He turns around and looks her in the eye, he takes a deep breath. Beyond them the archdemon continues clawing and biting at the soldiers who are here to buy the Grey Wardens time. Alistair can’t stop for long. But for this frozen heartbeat, he and Rhyanon are alone. “I love you,” he says, calmly. Gently. “Rhyanon, I love you. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”

And then he runs toward the archdemon, and all Rhyanon can do is watch as he leaps up onto the beast and plunges his sword into a break in the demon’s scaly hide. The archdemon falls still, and Alistair’s limp body falls to the ground.

An explosion rocks the sky, and the world beneath her is shaking, the stones cracking under her feet as if someone had cast an earthquake spell. Rhyanon falls to her knees. She can’t breathe. Her own tears choke her. He said he’d protect her, a long time ago, but this isn’t what that was supposed to mean. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

She’s vaguely aware of someone wrapping an arm around her and helping her to her feet. There are still darkspawn. It isn’t safe. She’d be happy to die here, but whoever it is that’s holding onto her won’t let that happen. She glances to the side to find Irving standing there, looking exhausted and forlorn, but strong. He won’t let anything hurt her, either. 

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve got you.” At his side, her dog barks and steps forward to nuzzle his head under her hand. Rhyanon is too dazed to protest or fight. She lets Irving half-carry her down the steps of Fort Drakon, hurrying to get to the bottom before the entire structure collapses. Once they reach the city, Rhyanon finally allows herself to stop. She is physically and emotionally exhausted, grieving, raging against Alistair for taking away her final choice, but he’s too dead to care that she’s mad at him and how is she supposed to do this without him? 

“I can’t,” she cries, sinking down to sit in the mud and blood of the street. “I can’t!” she screams, as the last of her mana releases itself like static on her skin, making her body feel like it’s on fire. 

“It’s over,” Irving tells her. “You’re safe.” 

Rhyanon pulls away from him. She isn’t safe. She’s abandoned, and her heart is breaking inside of her, squeezing tight in her chest until she can’t pull in enough air. She clenches her hands into fists so tight that her nails dig into her skin. She closes her eyes, and she can’t stop seeing Alistair: the look on his face as he laughed, the way his hands felt on her naked body, the look in his eyes as he fought for her, forging the path ahead. She wants to hate him, but she can’t. She can’t feel anything at all.


	21. Epilogue

Rhyanon blinks slowly and lets the world come back into focus. She feels weak, tired, but she pushes herself past it and forces herself to stand. Whatever injuries she'd had have been magically healed. Nothing else would work so quickly, and if she concentrates she can trace the residual mana, leaving it's lingering traces in her blood. It must have been Wynne, taking care of her.

She feels cold. She pulls a robe tight around herself and stands... confused, alone.  _ Alone _ . 

The memory, the heavy realization, crashes down on her, and she sinks to the ground. She curls into a tight ball and her heart hurts and tears sting her eyes. There's no healing for this kind of pain. Her stomach churns. She feels empty, hollow, as if her insides have been scooped out.

And she doesn't remember getting there, she doesn't even remember getting dressed, someone must have helped her, she doesn't know who, but suddenly she's standing with Anora: the queen now. Unbidden, she remembers that the woman betrayed her and left her and Alistair to be tortured and they would have been killed if they hadn't escaped, and thinking about Alistair makes her almost fall apart again, but she can't, because everybody's watching her, wanting her to be their hero.

She puts on the familiar mask as Anora gives a speech she doesn't listen to, so it takes a long time for her to realize that there's a pause, that they're waiting for her to say something.

Leliana whispers that the Queen has asked her if there's any way for the crown to officially reward her for saving Ferelden.

A boon. Anything she wants.

All she wants is Alistair, and they can't give that to her.

But... there's a reason she's this good at pretending she's okay when she's breaking inside, and it comes from a place she knew too well before she ever knew Alistair. It's the place he rescued her from.

"I want the Circle free," she says, in a strong, clear voice.

She sees the shock flicker across Anora's face before she puts up her own mask, and Rhyanon almost smiles.

But she did ask.  _ Anything _ . There's no taking it back now.

"Well, I doubt the Chantry would agree," Anora says, with just a hint of sarcasm. "But very well. Ferelden's mages have earned the right to watch over themselves."

It sounds... so  _ easy _ , when she says it that way. But Rhyanon can't even imagine what it will be like. The Circle without templars? Without the Chantry in control?

_ What about Anders? _ her inner voice nags, and she almost tells it to shut up because it feels like she's betraying Alistair by even thinking about anyone else in any way now. But she's doing this for him as much as for anybody.

_ "I want the Circle free." _

_ I want  _ _ him _ _ free. Will he be allowed to run, now? _

Anora asks her what she plans to do now.

"I think... I'll travel, for a while," she manages to say. It seems smarter than admitting she has no idea.

She thinks her first stop will be Redcliffe. For Alistair. For Duncan.

She knows Alistair will be put to rest in Denerim, in a huge formal ceremony that he wouldn't have wanted and that she doesn't want for him. It's what he gets for being king, even if it was only for a brief while. For once, she's glad they couldn't have been together in public, because it means she doesn't have to be there to fake her way through that.

She can steal away in the middle of the night and watch from some hidden corner, because she won't abandon him, not ever.

They burn his body, one last cleansing fire to send him to the Maker. She wonders if the part of him that was a templar would be comforted by this, or if the part of him that hated everything about the Chantry would hate it.

The Grand Cleric says the words, and Rhyanon fights the urge to tell her she doesn't deserve to. She never cared about Alistair when he was just a little kid and she was supposed to watch over him, so she shouldn't get to pretend she cares about him now.

But she remembers the rose and the gardens and the fact that Alistair never held a grudge.

So she just listens to the prayers, and adds her own: her wishes that Alistair really is somewhere in a place where he can be happy forever, her hopes that it's true he can still watch her somehow, that he isn't just...  _ gone _ .

After the funeral, she keeps her promise to go to Redcliffe. Eamon welcomes her into the castle and she wanders around for awhile, but she doesn't stay inside. The castle feels too confining; she will never feel safe inside stone walls.

She goes to the stables, to the kennels, to the places where Alistair felt at home. She curls up in the hay and she feels warm and safe and she knows he's still here with her. The mabari puppies crawl on her and lick and nibble at her fingers.

It feels strange, to be on her own, without the people she'd gotten so used to following her around. 

Alistair always asked her what to do, where to go, but as she sits on the docks, with her bare toes tracing circles in the cold waters of Lake Calenhad (aware that this same water is lapping up against the base of the Tower she'd gone through so much to get away from), she asks  _ him _ .

And she realizes she's always known the answer.

"We're Grey Wardens now," he'd told her, a long, long time ago at a faraway campfire. "That's what matters."

Not their past, not what they were before, but what they  _ are _ .

_ "Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten."  _ His words, before she'd known him; words that have been said since the first.

Alistair did his duty, and he always trusted her to do hers, even though she'd always insisted that he was the real Warden as much as he insisted that he'd never been a real templar. Well, he'd been right about that, so she supposes he must be right about her too. Because she's the last one now, the only Warden in Ferelden. It's up to her to rebuild what they lost, to remember everything Alistair gave her by recreating the family that rescued him, and rescued her.

She knows where she's going now. It's Amaranthine.


End file.
